


Where the Pieces Fit

by 3jarsofbees



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (but like just a little slaughter I promise), Banter, Clan Lavellan survives, Crisis of Faith, Dalish cuisine, Fluff and Angst, Halla buddies, I mean you love them and all, M/M, bringing the boyfriend home, but sometimes they ask your boyfriend weird questions, complicated feelings about your family, culture clash, full inventory, growing up gay in the woods, light homophobia, non-believer Inquisitor, ritual slaughter, who made this idiot inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 02:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10935426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jarsofbees/pseuds/3jarsofbees
Summary: “Promise me you’ll keep an open mind?”“What? Of course. My mind is open. It’s thoroughly open. If it were any more open my brain would be splattered all over the grass.”Lavellan has always had complicated feelings about whether or not he belongs with his clan. Still, when the dust settles following Corypheus’s defeat, he is eager to check in and see how his clan-mates are doing.Bringing Dorian home with him... might make things a little more complicated still.





	1. Some ways we're different

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to commenters Ali and php30010 for suggesting I write some Dalish home time with Dorian! And thanks to cellophaneflowers for her brilliant Cole suggestion, which birthed some useful dialogue.
> 
> Elven words taken [from the wiki](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_language) and/or from my ass. For the record, "Da’mi" is a friendly nickname; "len'alas" is an insult (which I'm mostly using to stand in for something like "dumbass").
> 
> And as usual I avoid first-naming my Lavellan throughout. Hopefully that's not too confusing here, considering the number of Lavellans in this story! He’s the only one being called "Lavellan" here, for clarity.

Lavellan is crouched by the crackling fire, his brow furrowed in concentration. For a moment, he feels like he’s making camp in the woods with his clan, and he has to use all his survival expertise to make this fire burn warm and long, or else there won’t be enough heat to cook their supper.

The illusion is somewhat hampered by the stately brickwork of the fireplace, and the ornate rug that lies across Lavellan’s quarters—and the presence of Dorian, who is standing behind him, arms crossed, watching him work.

Sure, “set a romantic mood for a handsome human” doesn’t have quite the same stakes as “keep your clan alive”—but it’s still a pretty vital cause.

“There,” Lavellan says, prodding the logs with a poker, releasing some sparks. “I think this should burn for a while.”

“You do know I could have conjured a fire for you, yes?” Dorian asks. “It would’ve been done in seconds.”

“Yes, but it means more this way,” Lavellan says, laying the poker to the side, wiping his ashy palms on his pant legs as he stands. “I made this for you, Dorian. I made this with my bare hands.”

“Oh, I see. So this is some kind of chivalrous demonstration of your manliness?”

Lavellan snorts. “Sure! ‘Manly.’ That’s me. Or maybe I’m just trying to teach you something useful.”

“Is it still ‘useful’ when I can accomplish the exact same result using a fraction of the time and effort?”

“It’s just a good practical skill. There’s no harm in having some practical skills, is there?”

“Well, I wholeheartedly disagree with that. What if I got my hands dirty? Disaster!”

“But what if, say, you get lost out in the wilderness and run completely out of mana? You could freeze to death.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian says, laying his arms around Lavellan’s shoulders. “I’ll just find an extremely manly elf to build a fire for me.”

“And what if I’m not there? What if I’m dead?”

“Then clearly I’ll have lost the will to live, anyway, so it won’t matter.” Dorian pauses. “Or perhaps I’ll just liberate some extra clothes from your corpse.”

Lavellan chokes on thin air. “ _Wow_. Well. That’s... very... resourceful of you.”

“You’ve got to make do with what you have in the wilderness, correct?” Dorian asks with a grin. “That’s the Dalish way, or so I’ve been told...”

Lavellan laughs. “You’re so stupid,” he says, and then he pushes Dorian backward, pressing his face with kisses, steering him steadily toward the bed, so they can continue this conversation with the comfort of blankets.

Between kisses, Dorian says, “ _Stupid?_ That’s how you try to woo me, is it?”

They’re paused just at the edge of the mattress, now. Lavellan furrows his brow. “You’re complaining about my wooing skills? After you just told me how you’d steal from my corpse?”

“For survival. It’s romantic.”

“I think you may be confused about what that word means.”

“I never. How dare you. I’ll have you know that I’m an expert in the romantic field.”

Lavellan reaches up and tweaks Dorian’s nose. He can’t resist doing this once in a while—it’s a very good nose, attached to a very ridiculous man. “We’ll have to see about that.”

“Please. As if you haven’t had ample demonstration...”

“Maybe I need some reminding?”

“That can be arranged,” Dorian says, and suddenly he’s literally swept Lavellan off his feet, in a grand gesture that quickly has them losing their balance and crashing to the mattress, still attempting the motions of kissing each other while also laughing uncontrollably.

“Be still, my heart,” Lavellan says, through residual snickering. “You’re off to a great start here.”

Dorian grins up at him, with that charming beacon of a smile he has. “Just wait ’til you—”

_Crunch._

There is a delicate pause. Then Dorian reaches down, digging between his body and the mattress, and pulling out a slightly traumatized pinecone. He arches a brow.

“Oops,” Lavellan says.

“Amatus,” Dorian says reprovingly. “Did you remember to empty your pockets?”

“I definitely... meant to.”

Dorian releases a long-suffering sigh. “Yet again...”

They clumsily separate themselves from each other, then turn to survey the mattress—which is now littered with an assortment of pebbles, leaves, crushed bits of pinecone, and a scattering of soil and moss.

“Damn it,” Lavellan says, and he begins to hurriedly collect these artifacts.

“Is it not enough that we spend the vast majority of our time tramping around in nature?” Dorian asks. “Must you also drag the whole of it indoors?”

“I didn’t mean to, I swear!” Lavellan says. He sweeps the last bits of dirt and moss from the mattress to the floor, then heads over to the desk and deposits his pile of objects, to be categorized later. He then reaches deep into his pockets, pulling out some additional moss, a panel of birch bark, a lumpy little rock, and a coiled bit of twine.

Dorian pads after him, watching this piling of inventory. He’s asked before, many times, why Lavellan feels the need to collect things like this. The answer is rarely satisfactory. “Because I like them,” Lavellan says. Or, “Maybe I can use this. Who knows?”

“So,” Dorian says, coming up from behind, draping his arms around Lavellan’s shoulders. “This is critical stuff, is it?”

“Not critical,” Lavellan says. “Still useful, though.”

The usual claim. And, as usual, Dorian points at the nearest item, which is the lumpy rock. “Explain.”

Lavellan picks up the rock, studying it, gathering his defence. “Okay, listen. Do you know how many rocks there are in Thedas?”

“Why would I possibly want to know that?”

“So many,” Lavellan persists. “Countless. And how many of those rocks do you think have the _exact shape_ of a creepy nug toe?”

“I...” Dorian frowns, leaning closer. “Now that you mention it, actually...”

“Right? This rock is singular. It’s _so important_ , Dorian. I have to keep it. Future generations need to know!”

“Honestly, if the horrifying appearance of nug toes were lost to the ages, I would consider that vastly preferable. But, as you say...” Dorian points at the coil of twine. “Explain that one.”

“What if... I snap one of my bootlaces and need a quick fix? Or what if I sprain my finger and need to make a splint with a twig?”

“You are absurd,” Dorian informs him, and he points to a brown, pressed oak leaf. “How about that?”

Lavellan stares at it for a moment. He thinks, _That shade of brown looks exactly like the mud in springtime on the forest track west of Wycome, that spring when I was nineteen, the mud on my knees, that day when I...._

“I just like it,” Lavellan says. “It’s... uh.... nice.”

It’s not the first time he’s clammed up over this kind of question. As usual, Dorian takes this as his cue to stop asking. “All right, then. Is that everything out of your pockets?”

“That’s all, I promise... Have I successfully killed the mood?”

Dorian laughs, then lifts Lavellan’s chin. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’ll take more than that to put me off... You should just feel lucky that I adore you so much.”

“Sure,” Lavellan murmurs as Dorian leans their lips together. “Whatever. You’re just biding your time so you can loot my corpse.”

Dorian splutters a laugh right into Lavellan’s mouth. “Oh, yes! I simply _must_ have my own...” He plucks the sleeve of Lavellan’s rather plain shirt. “Whatever this is.”

“It’d keep you warm, at least...”

“I can think of a much more entertaining way of doing that.”

Lavellan can’t help but grin as Dorian dips him backwards for another kiss. This man is awfully strange. He’s also the last thing that Lavellan ever expected to find in the Inquisition. But Lavellan will be forever grateful that Dorian made his way here.

* * *

In the weeks of tentative calm following Corypheus’s defeat, Dorian finds Lavellan reading a letter in the garden.

“What have you got there?” Dorian asks. “Secret admirer? Scandalous intrigue? Perhaps a spot of dirty poetry...?”

“Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid,” Lavellan says. “It’s from my Keeper.”

“Oh? That’s the woman at the head of your clan? What does she have to say?”

“She wants me to come home.”

Dorian pauses, raising his brows, his chest suddenly feeling a little tighter.

“I think I might go,” Lavellan says. “I’d like to see if they’re all right, after everything they’ve gone through...”

“But... Go home? You don’t mean permanently...?”

Lavellan lifts his head, looking momentarily lost. “What? Oh, no, no, I don’t think so. I mean, I doubt I could get you to come live the nomadic lifestyle with me, could I?”

“Only if it involves a nomadic bedroom that someone else carries around for me.”

Lavellan smirks. “Lifting entire rooms is not my forte, I’m afraid... Sounds like I’ll have to stay here.”

Neither one says anything about Tevinter. They’re still riding the euphoric high of the Inquisition’s victory—they’d rather not acknowledge that looming possibility.

“Excellent choice,” Dorian says. “Just a visit, then? How long will you be away?”

“Depends on the roads. Some weeks to get there and back... two months, maybe?”

“Hmm,” Dorian says, a wrinkle of displeasure in his brow.

Lavellan hesitates for a bit. It’s been ages now since they were apart that long. He’s dragged Dorian to every corner of Thedas over the past year and a half, if only to ensure he’ll never have to go to sleep without him. But this particular corner? This personal, highly embarrassing corner?

And yet the idea of months without Dorian makes Lavellan feel like having a nervous breakdown, so he finally blurts out, “You could... come with me? If you want, I mean...”

“You want _me?_ ” Dorian asks. “...To come with you?”

“If you want to.”

“And _sleep on the ground?_ “

Lavellan laughs, then looks at his feet. “Yes, well... no, all right, you don’t need to. You’re right, you probably wouldn’t enjoy it, anyway.”

Dorian feels a confusing sting of guilt at this. So he sits down at Lavellan’s side, bumping Lavellan’s knee with his own. “I could go, of course, if it would make you happy. But are you sure you’d actually want me there? Do you truly want to introduce your clan to all of... this?”

“All of what?” Lavellan asks. “All of the most handsome man I’ve ever seen?”

“Ah. So it’s bragging rights you’re after.”

Lavellan snorts. “Clearly,” he says. “I mean... I don’t want to force you to sleep on the ground, either. I mostly don’t like the idea of being away from you for so long. Who would keep me entertained?”

“Well, I could always go with you as far as Wycome,” Dorian says. “And then find myself a corner with all the finest wines and drink myself into a stupor until you’re finished seeing your clan. That way we have each other’s company for the journey, but...”

“Brilliant,” Lavellan says. “That’s a great idea, Dorian! Then I wouldn’t have to force you into yet another uncomfortable bedroll on the ground...”

“And it also spares you from having to make any of those unpleasant explanations,” Dorian adds with a smile. “Not a bad bargain, is it?”

Now it’s Lavellan’s turn to feel guilty. There is no hint of anything amiss on Dorian’s face, but Lavellan knows better. Lavellan has learned a lot about the insecurities that Dorian rarely lets anyone see, and he recognizes them right here: _Dorian thinks I’d be embarrassed to bring him._

Lavellan wants to grab Dorian’s face and scream: “No!” He wants to shake Dorian by the collar, to beam this thought straight into his head: _I’m not embarrassed over what they might think. I’m embarrassed over what_ you _might think._

It’s just—he knows the elf that Dorian sees him as. And he also knows the elf that his clan remembers him to be.

Those are two vastly different elves. And Lavellan’s never counted on having them meet.

Still, no depth of nervousness on his part could ever justify hurting the person in front of him. Lavellan says, “No. You know what? I’ve changed my mind. I want you to come. You should come. You should meet my whole stupid clan.”

“Do you think that’s wise, love?”

“Yes,” Lavellan says firmly. “It’s a great idea. And then, after it’s all done—after I make you suffer on the ground for a few nights—I will take you to Wycome, and we’ll do an _extensive_ sampling of wines, together—and we’ll stay somewhere with an excellent bed.”

“You’re really not worried about what your clan might think?” Dorian asks. “Bringing a man home? A human man? An _eeeevil_ Tevinter, at that?”

“No,” Lavellan says. “I’m already off the path they wanted for me. It hardly makes a difference now. And what could they say about you, anyway? You’re...” He flips through about eight thousand possible adjectives, settling on: “Brilliant.”

Dorian scoffs. “I really do think you get more ridiculous by the day.”

“Well, then? What do you say? Will you come with me?”

Dorian looks at Lavellan for a few moments, something inscrutable in his expression. Finally, he says, “You know damned well that you had me at ‘wines.’”

* * *

Back in the earlier days of their relationship, while cuddled up in bed, Dorian makes this request: “Tell me about your family.”

It seems the right thing to ask, after Lavellan has faced Dorian’s father in person, and listened for hours to Dorian’s familial pains with his head resting against Dorian’s shoulder, always assuaging and reaffirming, and quietly adding things like: “I think you’re very brave.”

Lavellan usually brightens up when Dorian asks him about the Dalish—their customs, their language—but with this question, his expression doesn’t change. “My clan, you mean?”

“If that’s what you prefer to call it,” Dorian says. “Do you not have any relatives there?”

“Blood relatives? Not in Clan Lavellan, no. I was sent to them when I was very small.”

“Is that common?”

Lavellan shrugs. “Depends. It’s not uncommon, I suppose. Too many blood siblings in one small clan and it becomes difficult to, er...”

“Procreate?” 

“...‘Bond,’” Lavellan corrects with a smirk. “For the purpose of procreating, yes. So sometimes the elders, uh, trade children, so to speak. Spread them around in the hopes of encouraging more matches.”

“So then you have parents and siblings in other clans? Do you know them?”

“Not really,” Lavellan says. He lays his head on Dorian’s chest, and Dorian begins to absently run his fingers through Lavellan’s curls. “Family is a little different for my people. Every elder is like your parent, and everyone your age is like a sibling, in a way... We’re all ‘kin,’ so to speak. Two of my friends growing up were blood siblings, but it didn’t make much difference, except that they knew they’d never ‘bond’ with each other. That was it.” He pauses. “That, and they have the same stupid hair...”

“In that case,” Dorian says, “why don’t you tell me about your kin?”

“Oh... I don’t know. Where would I possibly start?”

He tells Dorian a few snippets. Nothing deep or personal—just a quick sketch of the people who he grew up around. (“Feolin was my friend, she was an excellent archer. Rimalin was the Halla Keeper, she was always very kind.”) Something makes him hold back on this, but Dorian isn’t quite sure yet what it is.

Dorian asks, “Do you miss them?”

“Sometimes,” Lavellan says. “Yes. No, yes, I really do.”

“Do you think about going back?” Dorian asks. “When this is all over, will you want to go back to them?”

Lavellan gets this curious little frown. He says, “I really don’t know, honestly.”

Usually Lavellan is obvious about his feelings—Dorian only has to think back to when they first met, before Lavellan admitted his interest, when he would outright stare at Dorian like a puppy under the moon. But when it comes to Lavellan’s feelings for his clan, Dorian sometimes feels like he’s a detective trying to piece a trail together.

Befitting any mystery worth Dorian’s attention, the clues are mostly cryptic and strange.

They are walking under the whispering leaves of the Emerald Graves when Cole starts to mumble something. Dorian bristles, ready to bat off any probe into his vulnerabilities—but it’s not him that’s the target this time. Cole is gazing at Lavellan’s back, at the tense height of his shoulders.

“ _I don’t belong here,_ ” Cole reads out. “ _I don’t belong anywhere. I have all the pieces but they’ll never fit right._ ”

“Ah,” Lavellan sighs, turning around. “We’re doing this again, are we?”

Cole is fidgeting with his hands, and though he doesn’t always hold eye contact, he manages to raise a doleful gaze to Lavellan’s face. “You think the pieces make a picture that’s wrong, but they don’t. They make a picture that’s you.”

Dorian wonders if he should even be listening to this. It all seems rather incomprehensible to him, in any case—but Lavellan is studying Cole, looking slightly impatient, as if trying to figure out how to quickly explain. Then he says, “Yes, Cole, it is me. That doesn’t mean it’s right.”

“Why wouldn’t it be right?”

“Because it... doesn’t necessarily... fit everywhere that it should. That’s all. It’s not really a picture anyone asked for.”

“But it fits you,” Cole says earnestly. “And now you’re here! I think that’s good.”

“That’s,” Lavellan says. “Uh. Well... thank you. I guess.”

It seems inappropriate to question Lavellan on something excavated from his head in this fashion, but Dorian files the words away for future reference. He doesn’t know quite what they mean yet, but he’s resolved to figure it out.

A similar chord is struck in the Fade, as they try to navigate unearthly pools and winding paths under the meddlesome scrabbling of the nightmare demon inside their heads. After it’s tormented them all one by one, it comes back to Lavellan again:

“You do not belong anywhere, len’alas lath’din. You do not belong in Clan Lavellan. They would never have taken you in Clan Haramel. And when these humans understand you for the imposter you are, they will be just as quick to cast you out.”

Dorian only understands about half of this, but still, he glances worriedly over at Lavellan as the words resound around them.

Lavellan’s response is nothing more than an unimpressed little sigh.

There is all that to puzzle through. And then there is this part:

Lavellan keeps it together in the war room. He asks Leliana to send her agents to get to the bottom of what’s going on in Wycome, and to do their best to protect his people in the process. On the last word, his voice wavers a touch: “Please.”

That same evening, Dorian finds Lavellan having a full-fledged panic attack in the corner of his quarters.

“They’re all I have,” Lavellan gasps into Dorian’s shoulder. “I can’t do this. They’re so far away. It can’t be me, I’m not the one, I’m not good enough, Dorian. I don’t know what to do.”

Lavellan doesn’t believe in the Dalish Creators anymore. It’s been a long time, he told Dorian once, since he’s had any faith in them at all.

But that night, Dorian hears him muttering prayers in elven. “Lavellan’vhen las Mythal’enaste.” Dorian dutifully rubs his back and doesn’t ask him to explain.

* * *

They are just about an hour into the woods outside of Wycome and Dorian has already begun to miss the concept of bathing.

Not that he hasn’t spent plenty of time away from proper facilities during their endless remote missions for the Inquisition. But now that Corypheus is in pieces, Dorian had rather hoped this kind of roughing it might be behind them. He’d nearly managed to forget the feeling of getting mud all over his clothing and knowing with certainty that he’ll be dealing with the sight of said mud for the next several days at least.

Of course, Lavellan is already twice as mud-splattered and couldn’t be happier about it. He is bounding ahead of Dorian on the path, stopping every few minutes to scoop up a rock or a pebble, or examine a nice leaf, or scrape some interesting bark off a tree.

“Stocking up on your new surroundings, I see?” Dorian asks.

Lavellan grins back at him. “Yes! I haven’t seen some of this stuff in...” Then he abruptly takes a knee and grasps a stalk of something that’s poking out of the forest floor. “Oh, look, wintergreen! Look how beautiful it is! It just doesn’t grow like this in Ferelden...” He snaps a few leaves off, then rubs them between his fingers, inhaling with satisfaction.

“You react to common plants as if they’re fine brandy,” Dorian says. “It’s fascinating. Or depressing. I can’t quite work out which.”

Lavellan gets back up and holds his pinch of leaves out to Dorian. “Here. Smell.”

“No thank you.”

“Come on! Give it a go. Gain a little appreciation for nature, while you’re out here.”

Dorian stands there, arms folded, refusing to. Lavellan brings the leaves closer and closer, eventually outright bumping his hand into Dorian’s mustache, at which point Dorian sighs and takes an obedient sniff.

“Good, right?” Lavellan says. “What do you think? Refreshing? Invigorating?”

“Smells like horrible medicine.”

Lavellan winds back and chucks the leaves right in Dorian’s face. 

Dorian responds to this indignity with a peevish frown. “Excuse me. I believe you’d call that a waste of perfectly good plant life.”

“Worth it,” Lavellan says, and then he grabs Dorian’s hand and continues onward.

As he lets Lavellan lead him through the brush, Dorian says, “You seem rather at ease out here.”

“Sure. It’s familiar. There’s something comforting about that.”

“Hmm... Are you quite sure this isn’t going to be a permanent visit? What if you get so comfortable in your old camp that you feel incapable of leaving? Should I be concerned? Am I about to lose you to a life of foraging and general barbarity?”

“Relax, Dorian. You think I’d just forget about our wine plans?” 

“Well, I don’t know. What if the sight of your childhood home inspires you to forsake all civilized comforts for the rest of your life?”

“Pfft. Please. No amount of nostalgia could possibly be more alluring to me than the idea of locking myself in a room with you, a warm bed, and six bottles of wine.”

Dorian scoffs. “Just six? Oh, ye of little faith...”

They come upon a small clearing in the trees with an oddly shaped boulder smack in the middle. Lavellan releases Dorian’s hand, glancing around. “I think this is where we were meant to meet...” He raises his chin, takes a deep breath, and begins producing some bizarre whistling and clicking noises, like he’s a malfunctioning kettle.

Dorian takes a nonplussed step back. “Darling? Are you having an episode?”

“Bird calls, you twit. It’s how hunters communicate.”

“Why, I had no idea you spoke so many languages. Could you do a turkey?”

Lavellan gazes wearily at him for a few moments, as if he’s awfully offended, but then he clears his throat and produces a warbling, stupendous gobble.

Dorian laughs with delight. “Wonderful. You truly are the most skilled lover I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

In the distance, they hear a similar whistling and clicking bird call, as well as a rustling in the brush. Lavellan holds up a hand and produces the same sound back.

They wait a few more moments as the rustling draws near. And then from the shrubbery before them emerges an elf with thick, coarse auburn hair, bold black tiger-stripes of a vallaslin on her face, and a wide, delighted smile revealing a gap between her teeth. “Da’mi!”

She’s the exact same puny height as Lavellan, which makes it seem all the more natural when they crush each other in a familiar hug. 

“Look at your stupid face!” Lavellan says, which Dorian is sure must be a perfectly normal thing for him to say in this situation.

From behind them emerges another elf, a man this time—taller, but with the same quality of coarse auburn hair, and a similar bold black choice of vallaslin. He doesn’t seem particularly excited about this reunion—and when his eye catches Dorian’s, he makes an expression of clear befuddlement.

“We missed you,” the woman says. “Aneth ara!”

“So, what is this now?” the man asks. “Some bigshot coming to see us, or what?” 

“It’s nothing like that,” Lavellan says. “Aneth ara, idiot. And, um—this is Dorian.”

The two elves look at Dorian at the exact same time, with the exact same head motion, and he suddenly feels thoroughly and uncomfortably judged.

“Dorian,” Lavellan says, indicating the woman next to him, “this is Feolin, my old hunting partner. She’s also an incredible archer. And the fastest tree-climber we have. And an all-around excellent person.”

“Aw,” Feolin says, and she shoots Dorian another gap-toothed grin. “Aneth ara, Dorian.”

“And this is Ruadhin,” Lavellan says. “He’s... Feolin’s brother.”

“Ha,” Ruadhin says. “Is that all I get?”

Feolin laughs, loud and husky. “Well, it’s obviously your greatest accomplishment!”

“I’m sure it’s nice to meet both of you,” Dorian says.

“You’re a friend of ours, then?” Feolin asks. 

_Ours,_ not _his._ Dorian is briefly unsure of how to respond.

“Yes, he’s a friend,” Lavellan says. “And part of the Inquisition.”

“Oh, great,” Ruadhin says. “The Inquisition.” 

“You’ve heard more than you want to about them lately, I expect?” Lavellan asks. 

“And then some,” Ruadhin says. 

Feolin shoots her brother a dirty look. “The Inquisition saved your neck, len’alas. And mine.”

“Oh, yes, sure. All those brave shem knights riding right in to save these poor, helpless elves. _Thank goodness._ “

“You would have preferred to be self-sufficiently dead?” Lavellan asks.

Ruadhin shrugs. “We could’ve taken them.”

Feolin barks out another laugh. “Listen to this! You know, Ru’s the real hero here, fighting off all the duke’s forces single-handed. If only the blasted shemlen hadn’t swooped in at the last moment and stolen his glory...”

“I might’ve done,” Ruadhin says. “We’ll never know now, will we?”

“Well, then. I apologize for ruining your moment,” Lavellan says.

“Apology accepted,” Ruadhin says. And then he turns his gaze back on Dorian. “So... What are you, exactly? A Tevinter Magister or what?”

Lavellan frowns, but Dorian is not particularly bothered. He’s heard this question endlessly since coming south. “Not a Magister, no. From Tevinter, though, yes.” 

“I thought the Inquisition was fighting Tevinters,” Ruadhin says. “Why are you with them?” 

“Well, I happened not to agree with the specific Tevinters that the Inquisition was up against.” 

“Oh, so, what—no loyalty to your country, then?” 

Dorian raises his brows. “Loyalty to an ancient relic of my people that’s attempting to rip the world apart? No, thank you!” 

“So,” Lavellan says, “all this time later and you’re still just an ass. In a way that’s kind of comforting.” 

Ruadhin shrugs. “We’ve all got our parts to play, sure...” 

“The whole world could be in flames,” Feolin says, “and Ru would still be off being an ass to someone.”

“Undoubtedly,” Lavellan says. “Anyway... no need to worry. Dorian’s a good Tevinter.”

“Oh, thank you,” Dorian says. “Nice to have your endorsement.” 

“And he’s here with you why, exactly?” Ruadhin asks.

“Because he’s my...” Lavellan hesitates a moment. He really should have come up with the right word before now, he thinks. “...Partner.”

Feolin’s brows shoot up—she looks properly intrigued. Ruadhin just looks perplexed. “Partner? What d’you mean? Partner in what? Business partner?”

“ _Business?_ ” Feolin says incredulously. “What do you think he does down there? You think he’s got time to lead all the humans and also just run a little business on the side, or...?”

“All right, all right. Then... partner in battle, or something?”

“That too,” Lavellan says, “but that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then? Sport?”

Dorian stifles a laugh. “Of a sort...”

“We sleep together, Ru,” Lavellan says. “Partner like that. You’re familiar, yes?”

Ruadhin does an exaggerated double-take. “What? Oh! So you’re still after men, even now...? And a _human_ at that? Fenedhis, now there’s a twist. The Keeper’s going to have your ears off.”

“No, she isn’t, I already wrote to her about it... And why should it matter that he’s human? Not sure if you’ve heard of biology, but children aren’t really in the cards here.”

“Hmmm,” Ruadhin says. “Now, there is a good question.” He turns to his sister. “Hey, Fey, which part do you think Sylaise is most disappointed about? I mean, do you think Sylaise would be more disappointed about an elven man with a human woman, or an elven man with another elven man?”

Feolin says, “I think Sylaise is disappointed she ever pulled you out of our mother.”

“And I don’t think Sylaise is going to be pleased with me regardless,” Lavellan says, “so I wouldn’t concern yourself too much.”

“Well, in that case...” Ruadhin turns to Dorian again, jerking his thumb Lavellan’s way. “ _Him?_ Really? This one? Are you sure?”

“Very sure!” Dorian says, which makes Feolin smile at him.

“Really?” Ruadhin says. “Honestly, though?”

“I came all the way here for him, didn’t I?”

“That’s enough of your noise, Ru,” Feolin says. “We should get back to camp. The Keeper will be glad you’re here... So will everyone else. There are, uh—a few faces missing, though. Just so you’re warned.”

Casualties, she means. The clan as a whole may have made it through the strife in Wycome, but not everyone was so lucky.

“I know,” Lavellan says. “And, um... I heard about Tanavel, Ru. I’m sorry. You must miss him.”

Ruadhin seems suddenly interested in doing anything but making eye contact. He casually studies his sleeve and says, “Yeah. Well. Whatever.”

“You are allowed to miss your best friend,” Feolin tells him gently, with a poke to the side.

“Who says I don’t?” Ruadhin mutters. “Doesn’t mean I have to talk about it.”

“Fair enough,” Feolin says. To Lavellan, she adds, “Tanavel went out bravely, of course. He was protecting the children. Kept them all safe.”

“I’ll bet,” Lavellan says. “Ir abelas.”

“So much for the Inquisition, huh?” Ruadhin says. “Could’ve sent your dogs our way a little bit fucking faster, don’t you think?”

“Thought you had it covered yourself, Ru,” Feolin says. 

“Well, I could have!” Ruadhin snaps. “All I’m saying, yeah, is if they were going to come marching in and take over, like we’re a bunch of helpless kids, then they could’ve at least done it in time to save Tanavel, right? But did they? No, they didn’t. So, _great job_ , Inquisition.”

“I’m really sorry,” Lavellan says. “I know. I wish we could’ve been quicker. I think about that all the time. But we were so far away, and... I really did my best, honestly. I don’t know what else to say.”

“I, uh,” Ruadhin says. He doesn’t appear to have been prepared for Lavellan to react with emotions, and at the sight of them, he is backing away slowly. “Yeah, um, no. It’s... fine. You did fine.”

“You did great, Da’mi,” Feolin says. “None of us would have our heads without you.”

“Hang on,” Ruadhin says. “So far as we know. It could’ve been—”

“Yes, sure. Except Ru, who would have heroically killed them all,” Feolin says, and then she wraps her arm around Lavellan’s neck. “Well, come on, now, let’s get you home! And you can tell me everything that’s been on. You must have some wild stories for us...”

They walk cheek-to-cheek in front, Feolin peppering Lavellan with questions, leaving Dorian and Ruadhin to follow behind. 

It’s been all of a few minutes together and Dorian can already anticipate what this conversation is going to be like. He smiles mildly at Ruadhin.

“So,” Ruadhin says. “Must be strange for a Tevinter to see elves who aren’t in chains.”

“Considering I’m a member of an organization that is led by an elf? An elf I happen to be with, at that? I’d say... no. Not especially.”

“And you’re just all right with all that? Elves in command and all?”

“Why not? He led us straight to victory. Even the most narrow-minded fool couldn’t argue with that.”

“Funny. Can’t think of a member of our clan less likely to end up leading an army of humans, but there you go...”

 _He never wanted to do it, either,_ Dorian thinks, but he’s not sure he wants to share that fact with this questionable person just now. Instead, he asks, “Why do you say that?”

“He’s just... he’s... just...” Ruadhin squints at Lavellan’s back. “He’s our small, weird, quiet one. You know? Not a leader of anything.”

Dorian resists the urge to flick a flame into Ruadhin’s face. _Excuse me. He happens to be_ my _small, weird, quiet one._

“It’s always the quiet ones, Ruadhin,” Dorian says instead.

“Hmph,” Ruadhin says. “I guess so.”

His words are cut through with a familiar crackling, popping sound, and then Lavellan whirls around with wide eyes. “Dorian...”

Green sparks from his left palm, so bright they’re searing right through the leather of his glove. Feolin and Ruadhin are both agape.

“Oh dear,” Dorian says.

“Wh-what the fuck is that?” Ruadhin asks, as he and his sister both inch toward it.

“That’s the Anchor thing?” Feolin asks, reaching out to poke it, then reconsidering midair and retracting her hand.

“Really? Creators, what is it, even? Why does it do that?”

“You can’t seriously tell me you’ve never heard about this,” Lavellan says. 

“Well, sure,” Ruadhin says, “but I thought the whole ‘Light of the Veil from His Palm’ thing was an exaggeration. Or maybe just some kind of shem metaphor? I mean, you can’t even do magic, can you...”

“If I might respectfully draw your attention for a moment,” Dorian says. “Is there a rift nearby? Have you seen one?”

“Is there what?”

“An inconvenient hole in the fabric of our existence?” Dorian asks. “A big shiny green thing that spews all manner of demons into the forest?”

“We have seen wraiths coming out of the grove down the river,” Feolin says. “No one’s gone in there, though...”

Dorian and Lavellan exchange a resigned look. “Right,” Dorian says, readying his staff. “What’s a few more dead demons on the pile?”

“We’ll handle this,” Lavellan says, though the siblings have already pulled out their bows and arrows. “You two stay here.”

Feolin scoffs. “No chance.”

“Eat a dick,” Ruadhin says. “...Oh. But you’d probably like that, though, wouldn’t you?”

“Congratulations,” Lavellan says. “You figured it out.”

As they hurry down the path toward the grove in question, Lavellan grabs Dorian’s arm and whispers, “Could you focus your barrier on them, please? Don’t worry about me.”

“You say that like I can’t protect three people at once,” Dorian says. “Very insulting, Amatus.”

Lavellan grins weakly. “Naturally. I apologize. Just, um... if it’s them or me...”

“Stop fussing, Da’mi,” Feolin says loudly from behind them, and Lavellan goes a bit pink.

“Honestly!” Dorian says.

There’s nothing particularly frightening anymore about the sight of a whirling rift in the wilderness. Lavellan and Dorian have faced their fair share of these over their time with the Inquisition, and they’ve been steadily cleaning up stragglers like this one since Corypheus’s defeat. Stepping ahead as Dorian plunges him into a fresh barrier, with arrows at the ready from behind, the whole thing is almost routine, and Lavellan feels oddly at ease.

Feolin and Ruadhin are a fairly inaccurate simulacrum of Sera and Varric—but still.

It’s only wraiths and shades here, much to Lavellan’s relief. Without needing to discuss it, he and Dorian fall into their usual strategy: Dorian summons crashing pillars of lightning to cage the demons, and Lavellan uses his daggers and his speed to make swift work of them while they’re trapped and paralyzed inside.

He’s so used to this kind of display from Dorian that he’s almost forgotten how impressive it actually is—until he catches his clan-mates’ faces. Though they have their arrows trained on the demons, they both keep glancing over at Dorian, looking utterly amazed.

“Sweet Andruil,” Feolin mutters.

“Fen’Harel’s arse,” Ruadhin says. 

Dorian couldn’t possibly hide how much he enjoys this. He gives them a brilliant smile and asks, “Questions?”

“Uh, nope. No. No thanks.”

As the last wraith dissipates back into the rift, Lavellan gathers a deep breath, then raises his prickling left hand. He grits his teeth through the searing pins and needles as the energy from the Veil flows into his palm, and he strains to feel out all the rift’s edges, then tears the thing right out of existence.

At this point his clan-mates are basically at a loss for words. “What—how—that was—”

“It’s rather good, isn’t it?” Dorian asks, with unmistakable pride in his voice. “You can see why he makes the entire Chantry piss itself.”

“Nice phrasing as always, love,” Lavellan says, shaking his hand, trying to clear out the lingering feeling of sparks in his palm. Then he lifts his head and realizes that they’ve gained an audience.

The last time he saw his Keeper, she had been bidding him farewell on his way to the Conclave. “This will be an important test for you, Da’len,” she’d said.

At the time, he’d wondered if she had worked out his crisis of faith, if she knew that his constant volunteering to scout further and further afield had something to do with his increasing, desperate need to pull away from his kin and sort himself out alone. Either way, he thinks now, neither one of them could have possibly anticipated _this_ result.

“You’re here, Da’len,” she says. The Keeper has never been particularly expressive—she’s always contemplative and reserved—but she is wearing a small smile for him now. “Mythal’enaste. I was wondering if I would be so lucky as to see you mend the Veil. Very impressive.”

Then she looks at Dorian. “I was concerned we might have a formidable adversary in these woods. But then this is the human you are travelling with?”

“Yes, he is,” Lavellan says.

The Keeper nods, then strides up to Dorian, offering her hand. Shaking hands is not a particularly Dalish thing to do, but she has had decades of experience with humans now. Lavellan recognizes this as a peace offering of sorts and he’s relieved to see it.

“Handshake,” Ruadhin mutters, and he elbows Feolin in the ribs. “See that? Handshake.”

“I see it, len’alas.”

As Dorian smiles amiably and gives her hand a shake, the Keeper says, “Andaran atish’an, mirthadra falon.”

“Thank you,” Dorian says.

She pauses, then half-smiles again. “I was going to translate. Do you speak elven, child?”

“Er... well... not exactly,” Dorian says. “He’s taught me a few phrases... I believe the first half of that was a welcome? I appreciate it very much.”

“Yes, you’re correct,” the Keeper says. “What else do you know?”

“Mostly just ‘ma serannas,’” Dorian says. “And, uh, incidentally... ma serannas for agreeing to have me in your camp. I suppose mages from Tevinter aren’t typically invited...” 

“We are happy to welcome an honoured friend of our own,” the Keeper says. “The second part of what I said to you, ‘mirthadra falon’—that means ‘honoured friend.’” 

“Oh! Well, that’s awfully nice of you.”

“Ma serannas, Keeper,” Lavellan says. “But he’s not my friend. He’s...”

There’s another awkward pause. Lavellan really needs to think of the right word to say here.

“...More than that,” Lavellan says. “As I’ve told you.”

“Hmm,” the Keeper says. Her expression is unreadable. “So you say.”

As they follow the Keeper back toward the camp, Dorian catches Lavellan’s arm. “Listen,” he says softly. “You don’t _have_ to specify to everyone. If it’s easier to just have me as your ambiguous friend...”

“No.”

“...No? Just no? You never do let yourself take the easy route, do you?”

“I am not ashamed of us, Dorian,” Lavellan says. 

This was not what Dorian meant to imply. He practically scoffs—trust Lavellan to work up some big explanation for why he needs to make things difficult for himself.

Still, Dorian would be lying if he said the sentiment didn’t provoke some odd, warm flip of his stomach. 

“You’re absurd, love,” he whispers back—though he affectionately pinches Lavellan’s side as he says it.

* * *

When they return to camp, a full crowd of Dalish elves is awaiting them. They immediately swallow Lavellan into their midst, shuttling him from person to person, taking turns hugging him, petting his head, touching his chest with murmured elven blessings, many just outright grabbing his left wrist and examining his marked palm with open curiosity.

For a moment, Dorian has the impression that he’s released Lavellan to be pawed over by some eager pack of wild animals—he has to remind himself repeatedly that Lavellan is one of them. That these are Lavellan’s people. That this is where Lavellan belongs.

Although, to be fair, Lavellan hardly looks comfortable with this situation. He’s wearing that one awkward smile of his, and his shoulders are up, which Dorian has come to understand means that Lavellan is doing everything in his power not to flee this crowd and find a safe blanket to hide under.

“So,” says a voice next to Dorian’s ear.

Dorian turns his head—and beholds Ruadhin, still standing there, still gazing at him with fascination. “Do you always just... pull lightning out of your arse?”

“It’s not always from my ass,” Dorian says. “Sometimes I pull it from other places.”

“Hmm,” Ruadhin says mildly, as though there is nothing odd about this answer. “Must be useful... Is that why he likes you, then?”

“I suppose it could be! Though it wouldn’t be the only reason. I have an exceptional number of talents, you see.”

“Oh yeah? You mean you can do fire, too?”

“Certainly. Fire, ice, spirits... The possibilities are endless.”

“That’s pretty good, I guess,” Ruadhin says. “Hey, so, all right, let me ask you something. Which one of you two...” And then a hesitant pause.

From the expression on his face, Dorian has a fairly good idea of what Ruadhin is getting at, but he’s sure as hell not about to indulge him in this. “Which one of us what?”

“Which one of you... you know. Which one of you is the... uh...”

“Which one of us is the... better swimmer?” Dorian suggests. “Which one of us has the better hair? ...No, wait, it can’t be that. That one’s obvious.”

Ruadhin furrows his brow. “Oh... I get it. You’re screwing with me.”

“A bit of advice for you, if I may,” Dorian says. “If the question is too uncomfortable for you to articulate, it’s probably not an appropriate question to ask.”

“I’m not _uncomfortable_ ,” Ruadhin says, as if offended by the very notion. “I just don’t know the right words, that’s all. What do you call it? The person who... does the man stuff, versus the person who does the... woman bit?”

“We’re both men. I believe that means we both ‘do the man stuff.’”

“You know what I mean! _In bed._ Which one of you does which bit?”

“Do you not realize how personal a question this is?” Dorian asks. “What if I asked you to explain the nuances of your sexual preferences?”

Ruadhin perks up. “Oh, well, my favourite is definitely—”

“Wait,” Dorian says. “Stop. You win. I retract my question.”

“I win? I’m the winner? Does that mean you’ll tell me?”

Dorian laughs. “Not on your life.”

“Well, you’re no fun,” Ruadhin says. “No wonder you and he get along...”

In that moment, it occurs to both of them that it’s gotten oddly quiet—Dorian and Ruadhin turn their heads and are suddenly aware that a whole lot of Dalish eyes are trained on them.

The gathered mass has indeed turned away from Lavellan and locked Dorian in their sights now. “Aneth ara,” someone says. “You are a guest of ours?”

“Ah, yes, right,” Ruadhin says breezily, and he claps his hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “This is—uh—fenedhis, I forget your name—well, anyway, this is the Inquisition’s Tevinter turncoat. He’s got a whole storm worth of lightning stored up his arse. Also, he’s gay.”

“Thank you,” Dorian says. “Thank you ever so much. How wonderfully succinct.”

Lavellan clears his throat, sliding in from the side, swatting Ruadhin’s hand away. “This is Dorian, actually... He’s my partner, is what Ruadhin means to say. And the rest was, uh... somewhat accurate.”

Some of the elves in front of them nod, while others look a little confused. Then one of them asks, “Inquisition? Then you are part of the group that helped us?”

“Yes, Dorian’s part of it,” Lavellan says. “He’s been very helpful to our cause. Instrumental, really.”

This earns clear approval among the group, most of whom nod and murmur things to each other—and then they jostle in to take turns greeting Dorian. Some grasp his hand, and each one introduces themselves, eagerly explaining their relation to Lavellan—“I taught him to hunt,” “I trained him with daggers,” “I showed him how to cook,” “I taught him hunting as well”...

Dorian knows he is never in his life going to remember all of these names, but he accepts these stiff handshakes, shoots charming smiles at everyone and hopes that’s enough.

“Would you allow us to honour you with our supper?” one of the hunters asks Dorian.

“Of course,” Dorian says. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“Very good,” the elf says. Then, to Lavellan: “We will get things ready now, Da’len. Please just relax in the meantime.”

“Thank you,” Lavellan says, and then he takes Dorian by the arm. “Come on, let’s go down to see the Halla. There’s someone else I want you to meet.”

Rimalin the Halla Keeper is a middle-aged elven woman with a kind, rosy face. When she sees them, she gives Lavellan a tight hug, asking if he is well.

“I’m very well,” Lavellan says. “Rimalin, this is my partner, Dorian.” 

Rimalin grasps Dorian by the shoulder, patting his chest. “Vhenan-ma ara atish'an,” she says warmly.

According to Dorian’s scant knowledge of elven, she’s just said something about hearts and peace? Must be well-meaning, at any rate. He decides just to give her another winning smile and says, “Hello!”

“So he finally found you,” Rimalin says. “I’m very glad to see it.”

Dorian is never sure if he should question these kinds of statements or just go with them. Is she speaking literally here? Or is this just one of those semi-mystical elven platitudes?

Before he can decide either way, Rimalin turns to Lavellan, gesturing toward the grazing herd. “Go on, now. There’s someone who’s dying to see you.”

Lavellan bursts into a goofy grin. He and Dorian approach the Halla herd, and Lavellan whistles and calls, “Samahl!”

A number of the beasts look up—and then one begins bobbing its head at the sight of him, cantering back and forth. When Lavellan reaches this Halla, it greets him with an eager head-butt. 

“Hi!” Lavellan says, rubbing the Halla’s neck, as she bonks her face against his face and snorts with pleasure. “Emm’asha! Ar lath ma!”

“Now, wait just one minute,” Dorian says. “You say that last part to me, too! Had I known you apply it indiscriminately to wildlife, I might not have been quite so touched.”

Lavellan gasps with theatrical offence. “This isn’t _wildlife!_ Her name is Samahl. Come say hello.”

“And, uh—how do you propose I do that?”

Lavellan gestures Dorian closer, then seizes Dorian’s wrist, pulls him in, and places his hand on the fur of Samahl’s neck. “Come here. Just look at her and say hi.”

“...Hello there, Samahl,” Dorian says. “How have you been? How’s life in the sty?”

Samahl gazes back at him with those black, featureless pools she has for eyes. Then she does a little snort. 

Dorian tries very hard to interpret some deeper meaning into Samahl’s expression, but for whatever reason, all he can hear in his head is: _why didn’t you bring me an apple, you useless sack of meat_

“Awww, yes, you like Dorian, don’t you?” Lavellan asks, scratching her flank. 

Samahl brings up her odd wet nose, sticking it right into Dorian’s face, snuffling damp, germ-filled, grass-scented air at his mouth. 

Dorian stands his ground with a pained expression. He stands his ground right up until Samahl unfurls her slimy tongue and slaps it across his lips. 

Lavellan has the gall to laugh.

“ _Augh_ ,” Dorian gags, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Charming! Just what I wanted... some rustic woodland disease to take home with me.”

“She’s not diseased,” Lavellan says reprovingly. “She’s beautiful and perfect.”

Samahl snorts again. Dorian hears: _Should’ve brought me a snack, human._

“Shall I assume this is a friend of yours?” Dorian asks.

“Mm-hm.” As Lavellan speaks, Samahl snuffles up and down his cheek, sticks her nose in his ear, then begins to nibble contentedly on his hair. Lavellan somehow does not react to this at all. “I used to come talk to her whenever I was having a hard time.”

“A good listener, then.”

“Very much so! I don’t know what I would’ve done without her.”

Samahl makes a honking sound, then sneezes all over the side of Lavellan’s face. Without flinching even a bit, Lavellan tugs his sleeve over his hand and casually wipes the spray from his cheek.

Dorian makes a mental note to scrub Lavellan thoroughly in a river.

And then from somewhere behind them arises an odd chorus of squealing. Dorian looks around at the Halla surrounding them, but the sound doesn’t seem to be coming from any of them.

Then he notices that Lavellan is gazing back toward the main camp with a concerned look on. “Oh dear,” he says. “They’re doing a ram roast.”

“They’re doing a what?”

“They’re, uh,” Lavellan says, and then he takes Dorian’s hands in his own and squeezes them. “Promise me you’ll keep an open mind?”

“What? Of course. My mind is open. It’s thoroughly open. If it were any more open my brain would be splattered all over the grass.”

“...Good, then,” Lavellan says. “Dorian, it appears my clan is preparing a ram roast for us. It’s a very intricate, meaningful ritual intended to offer us the clan’s collected strength and show appreciation for the Creators. It’s not something they do very often. In fact, this is probably the first time most of my kin have ever performed this ritual for a human.”

“Oh? I should feel lucky, then.”

“Yes, you should,” Lavellan says. He hesitates. “So, um... Please just drink the blood.”

There is a long, weighty pause. And then Dorian says, “I’m sorry, what now?”

* * *

“Drink the blood,” is what Lavellan said. And he meant it. What he quite literally meant was, “Dorian Pavus, would you please kindly drink some fresh blood collected from the gaping neck of this brutally murdered ram?”

They are standing together as part of a circle of Lavellan’s clan-mates, surrounding the body of a quite freshly slaughtered ram, as two hunters slowly, carefully drain the blood that is pooling out of the ram’s jugular into a ceremonial bowl.

“Are you okay?” Lavellan whispers.

“Fine!” Dorian whispers back. He makes it sound very convincing. He is determined to convince himself of it as well. He is definitely, completely fine here. His mind is _so very open_. He is absolutely going to do this.

 _After all,_ he tells himself, _this won’t exactly be the first unpleasant thing you’ve swallowed to keep a man’s affections, now will it?_

At length, the clan’s oldest hunter joins them and begins to explain the ritual for Dorian’s sake: “When the clan was starving, Andruil sent a messenger in the form of a ram. The ram’s meat was fat for our bones, and the ram’s blood was water for our throats. Andruil made us strong again. With this ram, we honour Andruil for her guidance, and we share our strength with you.”

And then another elf carries over the ceremonial bowl full of freshly squeezed ram juice. 

“Before we drink,” the hunter tells Dorian, “we say, ‘Vir ena, Andruil!’ It’s how we ask Andruil to show us the way.” He pauses, then frowns and turns about. “Keeper? I’ve never done this with a human before. Do we ask him to say the same thing? Or shall we give him something of his own to say?”

“Why not ask him for an equivalent?” the Keeper says. To Dorian, she asks, “Who oversees the hunt for your people, child?”

“Uh,” Dorian says. “Well. That would be—”

“Sera,” Lavellan puts in, with an insolent grin. “You can ask Sera.”

“Oh, yes, of course. ‘She of the many arrows.’ Who better to ask for direction?”

“Very good,” the hunter says. “Then, before you take a drink, you will ask your Sera to guide you.”

The bowl is given to the Keeper first. She holds it up and says, “Lavellan’len mirthadra. We honour our child, and his Inquisition, and their aid that kept our clan safe.”

There is a murmured assent from most of the gathered elves. Lavellan looks deeply uncomfortable with this, flushing pink and staring at his feet.

“May Andruil guide you, Da’len,” the Keeper says. Then she bows her head over the bowl, says, “Vir ena, Andruil,” and drinks a mouthful of blood from the rim. 

She passes the bowl to the lead hunter—he’s the one who supplied this ram, they are informed—and he does the same. Then he holds the bowl out to Dorian.

Dorian gingerly takes the bowl, gazing down into its dark, viscous contents. _This is just wine. This is fine... blood-red... Antivan wine. ...All right, no, set your expectations: probably more like Orlesian. But still. It’s just wine. This is wine. This is perfectly normal._

He gathers in a breath and exclaims the most fitting thing you could possibly say before putting something disgusting in your mouth, which is: “Guide me, Sera!”

And then he drinks. It’s _very warm_ and uncomfortably thick and tastes overwhelmingly of iron. 

Before he can meditate on any of this too extensively, Dorian forces himself to swallow. The blood, which has already slightly congealed, slips down his throat in glob form. Dorian heroically suppresses a full-body shudder.

And then, looking as utterly casual as he can manage, he turns to Lavellan, holds out the bowl, and smiles.

Lavellan is currently gazing back with an expression so adoring that Dorian can practically hear the flattering sonnet being composed in Lavellan’s head.

 _So this is how one wins your heart,_ Dorian thinks, as he passes the bowl into Lavellan’s hands. _I should’ve guessed._

Raising the bowl to his lips, Lavellan clearly says, “Vir ena, Andruil.”

(And then, so softly that Dorian barely hears it: “And Sera.”)

Lavellan drinks a mouthful of blood, then passes the bowl along. And then he takes Dorian’s hand, squeezes it, and whispers into Dorian’s ear: “I love you so fucking much.”

“I know, darling,” Dorian says.

* * *

Once the blood has been shared among the clan, they prepare the carcass to be skinned and butchered. One of the hunters hands Lavellan a knife, then offers Dorian one as well.

“Um—well—Dorian’s a mage, actually,” Lavellan says. “More like a First. That’s not really his place.”

“Oh, all right,” the hunter says, although Dorian is sure he can detect a hint of side-eye—as in, _of course this useless human doesn’t know how to butcher a ram._ “You can watch us, then, Dorian.”

He does watch them, from a seat at the fireside, as they strip the ram’s hide to be tanned and then handily impale the ram’s carcass to be roasted over the roaring fire. He’s seen Lavellan do things like this on his own before—but watching a group of Dalish work at it together is rather fascinating. They’re like an efficient machine.

As the younger part of the group—including Lavellan and his childhood friends—moves on to preparing herbs and vegetables, some of the older members clean themselves up and disperse, and a woman sits herself down next to him. “Hello, Dorian.”

“Hello,” Dorian says, and he racks his brain. He’s sure this woman was introduced as one of the many people who mentored Lavellan in hunting at some point in his life. But... “I’m sorry, can you remind me of your name? I’m horrible at remembering names, I’m afraid...”

(That’s not actually true. But, then, Dorian doesn’t usually get pelted with thirty Dalish names and faces in one afternoon.)

“No trouble. It’s Aevia.”

“Oh, yes, now I remember,” he lies. “Hello again, Aevia.”

“Hello,” Aevia says again. “May I ask you some questions, Dorian? We often encounter humans on the road, but it’s not often we have a human get so... close to us.”

 _As in, ‘sleeping with one of you’?_ “Certainly. What would you like to know?”

It seems Aevia’s courage has inspired others—as they speak, a few other men and women drift over, sitting down around them. Dorian smiles at these people and greets them as they sit, though he has no recollection of any of their names, either.

“Have you ever seen a ritual like this one before?” Aevia asks.

“I haven’t, no. I understand it’s rare for a human to be included in one? I appreciate that your clan would allow it.”

“You’re very interested in the Dalish,” an elderly man says.

 _Is that a question?_ Dorian thinks. _An accusation, perhaps? I’m very interested in one particular Dalish, at least..._ “You could say that. It’s certainly interesting to meet your clan. I’ve been hearing about you for a long time.”

“So your vhenan has told you about us?” Aevia asks.

It takes Dorian about three seconds to parse this. He knows the word ‘vhenan’—first, he knows, logically, that it means something like ‘heart’; second, he knows, viscerally, that it’s a term Lavellan calls him only when Dorian has done something particularly infuriating. What that says about their relationship, Dorian isn’t entirely sure. 

_Right,_ Dorian thinks. _If I’m his ‘vhenan,’ then I suppose he would be mine, too._ “Yes, he has, a bit.”

“You’re an unusual pairing,” the elderly man says. “Do your people accept this match?”

Dorian grins. “Oh... well. My people happen to accept very little of what I do.”

The Dalish around him murmur their assent, nodding, exchanging glances, as if this explains absolutely everything. 

“Then you must also be the first member of your clan to eat supper in a Dalish camp?” 

_‘Clan Pavus’? What would they say about all this, I wonder? Mother at a ram roast—Maker, that would be a delight._ “I think that’s a safe bet, yes.”

For some reason, the Dalish around him get big smiles at this. “Welcome, then! Andaran atish’an!”

“May you shape your clan’s path,” a woman says.

“This place must be very different from your own home,” Aevia says. “I wonder, do you understand the story of Andruil’s messenger ram? The story that we honoured in our ritual, I mean?”

“I just know what your lead hunter told me about it,” Dorian says. “Is there more to it?”

“Yes,” Aevia says. “This happened not very long ago. Your vhenan was... hmm... five years old?”

“Six,” someone else says, and the others nod.

Up to now Dorian had rather assumed it was a generic parable, not an actual occurrence. “Oh? What happened?”

“That spring our hunting was scarce,” Aevia tells him, “and our stocks for the winter were nearly gone. Everyone was incredibly hungry. The children were too hungry to even play. Your vhenan got so skinny you could see every one of his ribs.”

Dorian looks unconsciously over at Lavellan, who is squatting on the other side of the fire, listening intently to someone else’s story as he peels a wild carrot.

“Because of Andruil’s favour, no one starved,” Aevia says, “but it was close. We all suffered. It took months to recover our full strength. And we encountered another clan that summer that had lost five people to starvation.”

“Maker, that’s awful,” Dorian says.

“It was difficult, yes. But it wasn’t only that spring, Dorian. In truth, we face it every year. Some years are worse, true. Not every year sees us so desperate, true. But the threat of it is always close by. That’s why we need to work so hard out here, and work together. That’s why we can’t forget to honour Andruil. That’s why the ritual means so much to us.” The others are nodding again as Aevia says this. “Do you understand my story?” 

Dorian thinks he understands. These elves have clearly deduced that he’s never risked starvation a day in his life, and Aevia is trying to make him identify with that struggle. And it seems to have worked. In all honesty, he’s still stuck on the mental image of Lavellan as a tiny, starving child. It makes him feel unimaginably distressed. 

“And despite all that, you’re still happy to live this way?” Dorian asks. “You’d rather be out here than in a city, where food isn’t so scarce?”

Aevia looks at him like he’s insane. “Have you met many elves in cities?” 

And Dorian instantly feels rather stupid. “Ah. Well...”

“They live in a box that humans build for them,” Aevia says, to more nodding. “At least we’re free out here. We’re in control of our lives, and we live them how we choose. Why would we trade that away?”

As someone who’s always hated having to relinquish control of his life to anyone, Dorian finds this answer rather relatable as well. “I understand,” he says. “Er... Thank you for answering that question. It must have sounded incredibly naïve.”

“I thank you for listening to my answer,” Aevia says. “It’s more than many humans would do.”

Dorian pauses. “I get credit for that much, do I? Well, there’s a ringing endorsement of my kind.”

Aevia tips her head. Dorian wonders briefly if the Dalish even do sarcasm—until she smirks knowingly at him. 

_Of course the Dalish do sarcasm,_ Dorian reprimands himself. _Why would you think they don’t? Have you even met your own partner before? Have you listened to half the things that come out of his mouth?_

After their dinner that night, Dorian cuddles up with Lavellan in an uncomfortable bedroll. He thinks of his own childhood and its particular obstacles, all drenched in opulence and artifice—completely removed from the struggles of life out here. While Dorian was busy chafing at the bars on his fancy cage, Lavellan was out here, struggling. Working hard, because he had no other choice. And _starving_. Dorian brushes his hand protectively across Lavellan’s stomach, trying to grasp the idea of this. Lavellan could easily have starved to death out here and never met Dorian at all.

Half-asleep already, Lavellan makes a contented little noise, like he’s just a kitten getting his belly rubbed.

It’s not like Dorian’s a complete idiot. He knows there’s a chasm of difference between himself and Lavellan—any stranger could look at them standing side by side and deduce that fact. And Dorian’s always been curious about this difference. He’s happily studied Dalish culture and customs—anything he could find in the library, and everything Lavellan could throw at him—if only to seek further understanding of the way his partner grew up.

But it’s always seemed like trimmings. As much as Dorian’s first impression of Lavellan was of a small, wild, tattooed elf with a piercing stare and a slightly feral gait, it took just one conversation for them to start recognizing common ground in each other. For instance, the fact that they both rely on inappropriately glib witticisms to distract themselves from tense situations—just the first relatable step on a long, familiar path.

With all that being the case, Dorian has always had this unshakable conviction that, despite everything else, he and Lavellan share an inner structure. The impression is reinforced every single time they make each other laugh. At the end of the day, they’re the same kind of person inside. 

Not that today has changed that impression. Dorian still strongly believes they’re made of the same stuff. But he is beginning to wonder if he might be writing off their differences a touch too easily—if he’s possibly doing Lavellan a disservice by pretending that all of it makes no difference. And, for the first time in a long time, a small part of Dorian wonders how Lavellan can possibly look at him, a clear product of a life of privilege, and not register any level of disgust.

Lavellan is quite close to nodding off, but, sensing some tenseness in Dorian’s form, he forces himself to crack an eye open. “You okay?”

“Mm. Just feeling rather awake,” Dorian says. “Must be all that invigorating blood...”

“Pfft,” Lavellan says. “I still can’t believe you drank it. I’m so incredibly proud of you.”

“Sure, I’m not about to embarrass you in front of your clan.”

Lavellan frowns reproachfully. “You could never embarrass me.”

“Oh, darling, please. Do not make that sound like a challenge.”

“...Never unintentionally, then. Is that better?”

“Much better.” 

As Lavellan snuggles in closer and begins to doze off again, Dorian goes back to thinking over everything he’s experienced today, wrestling with the unsettling feelings that have been flitting around in his stomach. Eventually, he says, “I’m sorry if I...” And then he hesitates.

“Hm?” Lavellan murmurs sleepily. “What’s that?”

“There’s... a lot I don’t yet understand about your way of life here,” Dorian says. “And... perhaps I shouldn’t always be so flippant about it. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry? You’re going to stop being flippant about something? Is that physically possible?”

“Oh, well, aren’t you clever,” Dorian says. “I’m simply... look, I know I always have plenty of inconsiderate things to say about everything. Things intended as humour, of course, but...”

“I don’t want you to change that, Dorian. I like you the way you are.”

“Yes, but... still. Perhaps I ought to tone down the amount that I... refer to your people as savages, or what have you. I know, those aren’t really fair things to say. And perhaps I shouldn’t be a person who makes inferences like that.”

Lavellan looks up with a furrowed brow. “But you’re not that person, love. Sure, you joke, but I know that’s not what you really think. You’ve treated me completely fairly from the first moment we met.”

 _Because you’re exceptional,_ Dorian thinks. _I knew that going in. But what if we’d met out here in the woods? You with a knife in your hand and no other context? What might I have thought of you then?_

Lavellan kisses Dorian’s cheek and says, “I love you. Now stop being ridiculous and go to sleep.”

Dorian isn’t sure whether he feels more embarrassed or guilty at being extended this amount of credit. Of course, Lavellan would think he’s infallible. Lavellan always thinks that. But what if he could lean into Dorian’s head and overhear all the knee-jerk thoughts that ping around in there? What magnitude of disappointment might Lavellan feel then?

 _Well, darling,_ Dorian thinks. _I might never be entirely worthy of what you think of me, but I can damn well aspire to it._

“I think I’m glad you brought me here, is what I’m trying to say,” Dorian says. “It’s been... illuminating.”

His eyes firmly shut, Lavellan mutters, “You’re illuminating.”

“Well, that’s fair. But are you referring to my radiant wit or my stunning good looks?”

“Both, definitely,” Lavellan says. “Now, good night, please.”

Dorian chuckles and says, “Fine. Good night.”


	2. And some ways we're the same

“Could you tilt it this way?” Dorian asks.

Lavellan angles the hand mirror downward. “How’s that?”

“Perfect. Hold it there...”

They have ventured a ways upriver, far enough that none of the Lavellan clan is milling about, so they can strip partway down and get in the water. Currently, Lavellan is sat shirtless, barefoot and cross-legged on a boulder, holding up a little mirror with both hands, while Dorian stands hip-deep in the water and takes a straight razor to the unsightly stubble that has emerged on his neck and cheeks overnight.

Lavellan watches this process with his usual amount of fascination—including the standard cringing as Dorian scrapes the razor across his throat. “Sweet Mythal...”

Dorian chuckles. “Are you still that squeamish about this? Perhaps I should to teach you how to do it. Say, then you could do it for me, even! That would be nice...” 

“Uh-uh. I’m not coming near you with that thing, that would end terribly. The only thing I know how to do with throats is slit them.”

“Nonsense. You’d never. You adore me too much.”

“Yes, exactly. Which is why I’ll never let myself near your throat with a sharp object.”

“How disappointing,” Dorian says. He rinses the razor off in the river, lays it with his other things on the bank, and then splashes a few handfuls of water over his face. “What do you think? Smooth as an elf again?”

“Let me check,” Lavellan says, and he carelessly tosses the hand mirror to the riverbank, then splashes down into the water and wades over, taking Dorian’s face in his hands. First he rubs Dorian’s cheek with his own cheek, then gives it a kiss. And then another one. This devolves into kisses all over Dorian’s face—not just his cheeks, but also his chin and his nose and his mouth and his mustache...

Dorian’s attempts to respond are interrupted by Lavellan’s mouth: “Are you—” Pause. “Trying to get me—” Pause. “In trouble with your clan?”

“In trouble for what?”

“Indecent exposure?”

“Who’s indecent?” Lavellan asks innocently, as though his hands aren’t starting to wander. “I’m just helping you bathe.”

“Oh, yes. You’re _so_ helpful,” Dorian says with a grin. “It’s not as though I’m a capable adult. How would I ever bathe without you?”

“Sure, you could do it alone. But it wouldn’t be half as fun, would it?”

“I couldn’t possibly argue with that,” Dorian says, and he tips up Lavellan’s chin, pressing their lips together.

“How do you even kiss someone so tall?” a voice asks. 

Dorian and Lavellan turn their heads, brows raised incredulously, and see Feolin standing there on the riverbank. 

“Seriously,” she says. “Are you standing on your toes?”

“...A rock, actually,” Lavellan says. “What do you want?”

“Oh! That’s resourceful,” Feolin says. “Sorry to ruin your fun, but the Keeper is asking to see Dorian.”

Dorian and Lavellan exchange a glance. “Uh... what?”

“Well, that was quick,” Dorian says. “I was sure I’d last at least a full day before getting thrown out of here.”

Lavellan frowns at him. “You are not getting thrown out. Not without me, at least...”

“She wasn’t angry, don’t worry,” Feolin says. “She probably just wants you to talk to her about magical theory or something else amazingly boring.”

“Boring magical theory, you say? My favourite,” Dorian says. “I’ll be right there. Just give us a moment to, uh... finish up here...”

“You might want to find a cave to do that in,” Feolin says. “Just a thought.”

Lavellan’s face goes bright pink and he says, “Not like that. Shut up.”

“Uh-huh,” Feolin says. Then she winks at Dorian and strolls off again.

“Caves,” Dorian says. “Again with the caves. Does every Dalish person think it’s acceptable to have sex in caves?”

“Where else are we supposed to do it, Dorian?” Lavellan asks, and then he gives Dorian’s ass an improprietous squeeze. “But I guess you’re off the hook this time. Can’t make the Keeper wait...”

“I’ll have to thank her. What’s appropriate, do you think? Fruit basket?”

Lavellan snorts and kisses his chin. “Just get going already. ...And then get back here and tell me what she wants from you. I’m dying to know...”

“And why should I tell you? Perhaps it’s a secret. Perhaps it’s secret mage business. Perhaps we’re planning to get you a secret cake.”

“Oh!” Lavellan says, frowning deeply. “Don’t get my hopes up. I would love a secret cake.”

Dorian laughs. “I know you would. You always would. I’ll get you one later, I promise...”

* * *

As Dorian dutifully enters the Keeper’s tent, sitting on the floor with her as instructed, he has no idea what to expect. Is this going to be some Dalish variant of ‘what are your intentions with my son?’

“I understand you have done much for our child,” the Keeper says. “You’ve been at his side. You have protected him, yes?”

“I’ve done my best to, certainly.”

“Then we owe you a debt,” she says. “Unfortunately, for today I’m afraid I must ask you yet another favour. That is, if you will allow it.”

“Of course.”

“The two of you have...” She furrows her brow. “Bonded, in a fashion? He is quite insistent about this.”

“I suppose you could put it that way. Yes.”

“You know this isn’t our way, of course, but he has ventured far from our ways in more than one sense. Given what he’s achieved on this path, I suppose this is where Mythal intended to guide him. However... You are aware that our people are quite few, spread thin.”

“Yes, I know.”

“He is exceptional, as you can see,” the Keeper says. “What he has done for the human world, what he has done for us... It is extraordinary. It would do much for our clan if he could share himself with us.”

Dorian is trying to work out if she’s actually implying what he thinks she’s implying. “You mean...”

“Without Dalish children,” she says, “we have no future. Ir abelas, but you must understand why we would hope his like to continue among us.”

“I hardly even know what you’re asking here,” Dorian says. “You want me to... relinquish him to you? Or...”

“No,” the Keeper says. “I can see he has found his place elsewhere. I will not expect him to come back to us now. But he could still father a child—the clan would look after it as our kin.”

Dorian gapes at her. “So—so—you want me to—lend him out? Like some sort of... stallion?”

The Keeper has the gall to look bothered by this comment. _You’re the one who asked me, woman,_ Dorian thinks.

“Though yours may not be a bond we recognize, I understand that violating such a bond is still a transgression,” she says. “I ask you to give him your permission to do so. That is all.”

 _Sweet blood of Andraste, she is actually serious._ Dorian tries very hard to present her with a calm, polite, respectful version of his answer to this, which is: “Whether or not he has my permission is irrelevant. He will not want to do it. That fact has very little to do with my existence.”

“Yes, I know this. He has refused several times in the past. I was hoping, now that he’s travelled a little farther, and gained more of Mythal’s wisdom... that it might prove easier to make him understand. Provided you give him your permission, of course.”

“I’m sorry, but this is a waste of your time. He’s not going to do it.”

“With all due respect, child, he may yet. And for the good of the people, I must try to convince him.”

“Excuse me?” Dorian says. “The good of the people, is it? Is he not one of yours, then?”

“Yes, of course. I don’t understand your question.”

“I’m asking you, what about his well-being? What about his happiness?”

“What I am requesting of him is one deed,” the Keeper says. “A child of his would further his people, which will be good for him as well. And the child’s very existence would honour him.”

“You must be joking. That is ridiculous.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re asking him to be something he’s not,” Dorian says, and he’s surprised by the sharp edge of anger that’s suddenly in his voice. “Don’t do that to him. If you truly love him, then accept him for who he is. Surely ‘his people’ owe him that much, after everything he’s done for you.”

The Keeper sends him a world-weary stare. “It seems you do not understand.”

“It seems to me that you don’t, either.”

She stares at him for a long time. Dorian’s anger doesn’t wear away, but he starts to wonder if he’s crossed some line here. Has he just squandered all the favour of the Dalish? Is she going to kick him out of the camp? Perhaps the others might even band together and string him up from a tree. How to explain this to Lavellan? _Sorry, love, it seems I’ve just alienated your entire clan. What’s an incorrigible pariah like me to do?_

Eventually, the Keeper turns away and says, “Ma serannas, then. You may go.”

* * *

Dorian strides back out into the sunlight, heart hammering with irritation. He has this sudden urge to find Lavellan and defiantly kiss him on the mouth.

 _Rein it in, Pavus,_ he tells himself. _No need to make a scene everywhere you go._

Still, he finds himself scanning the camp, seeking Lavellan, negotiating himself down from a passionate kiss to a reassuring hand-squeeze. 

And, as he considers this—it quickly occurs to him that he also should probably go explain what he’s just done before someone else informs Lavellan that his partner has gone off the deep end and brazenly told the Keeper to shove it.

 _Will he be angry with me?_ Dorian muses. _Or perhaps just disappointed? Will he regret ever bringing me here? He might just..._

Before Dorian can locate Lavellan, however, from the space right behind his ear, in a husky girl voice: “Hi.”

Dorian jumps halfway out of his skin, yelping a Tevene curse, which makes Feolin laugh with delight. She’s probably never heard those particular words before—they must sound like odd human gibberish.

“Maker’s breath, do you always greet people like that?” Dorian asks.

“You’ll get used to it,” she says. “Dorian?”

“Yes?”

“I have a question for you.” She gestures away from the camp, toward the trees.

“Is this urgent?” Dorian asks. “Because I really need to find—”

“It’ll be very quick,” Feolin says, tugging on his arm. “But it’s important. Two seconds. I promise!”

Feolin leads Dorian to the shade of the trees, away from everyone else’s ears, where she asks him, “I just want to hear something from you. Do you really love him? Is that true?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then tell me why.”

“...What’s that? _Why?_ You can’t imagine?”

“Sure, I can think of a few reasons. I just want to make sure that yours are the right ones.”

“Ah. No pressure,” he says, which earns him another toothy grin. “Well... how am I supposed to explain this, exactly...”

“Just tell me the reasons,” Feolin says. “Say, ‘I like him because...’”

Dorian sighs, leafing through the many uninspiring adjectives he has on hand. As if it’s all that bloody simple. “I like him because... he’s... clever. He’s kind. He’s capable and brave. And...”

These reasons feel stale in his mouth. They’re all true, of course, but they aren’t the half of it. Dorian has a world of better reasons than this—but they’re hardly the sort of thing he feels comfortable articulating to Lavellan himself, let alone some woman he’s just met. 

_Because he understands me. Because he’s endlessly supportive and patient. Because he makes me laugh right down to that bitter, angry knot in my stomach. Because he is a miraculous little package of things that never fail to surprise me. Because he’s the only person in the world who keeps giving me reasons to feel less afraid._

“...Because we can trust each other,” Dorian says. 

It’s not a particularly great summary, but it’ll just have to do.

Feolin nods. “All right then.”

“So? What’s your judgement? Were those the right reasons?”

“Right enough.”

“I am relieved,” Dorian says, and she grins again. “May I ask you a question, now?”

“Go on.”

“You were his hunting partner, yes?”

“Most often. Not every time.”

“Did you save him from the bear?” Dorian asks. Feolin blinks, and Dorian runs his finger along where the claw-mark scar lies on Lavellan’s face. “I know someone here did. It was you, wasn't it?”

“It was,” she says. “He told you about that?”

“He did.”

Feolin looks at Dorian appraisingly, as if trying to phrase a weighty and difficult question. At last, she asks, “Does he still piss himself whenever he sees one?”

Dorian tries very hard not to smirk, but he does anyway. “I would say... that he very admirably pretends not to.”

Feolin laughs aloud. “Still the same, then... Why’d you ask me about that?”

“I just wanted to thank you. For being there for him, I mean. If you hadn’t—if we’d never...” He abruptly winds the record back, tries to amend that to be slightly less embarrassing: “If _he_ hadn’t made it, if he hadn’t been here to do all the things he’s done... I hesitate to imagine.”

“Aw,” Feolin says. “I would’ve done it anyhow, big fate aside.” She studies Dorian for a moment more. “You’ve been with him through all this bizarre stuff, yes? Caring about him? Watching his back?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then I have to thank you,” Feolin says, and she hops over and gives him a squeeze.

Feolin is forceful and scratchy and smells of pine needles, but there is something comfortably familiar about hugging her for the first time. (Perhaps it’s because her cheek bumps the exact same spot on his collarbone that Lavellan’s always does.)

“‘Ma serannas’?” Dorian says.

“Ma serannas,” Feolin agrees.

“Now,” Dorian says, once they’ve safely retreated from this hug. “Speaking of our mutual acquaintance, do you know where he’s gone? I need to speak to him rather urgently.”

“I think he was going to help groom the Halla. Come on, let’s go see...”

They traipse down to the riverside, where the herd of Halla is peacefully grazing in the grass. On sighting them, one in particular ambles over—from the dopey gait, Dorian is willing to bet this is Samahl. A suspicion that seems to be confirmed by the way she snuffles at his collar, then calmly starts chewing on it.

“Excuse me—why?” Dorian asks the Halla. “Why must it be like this?”

Feolin snorts. “This one’s just like that,” she says, and she claps twice. “Hey! Samahl, psst! Halam!”

Samahl relinquishes Dorian’s clothing and plods dejectedly away.

“Samahl didn’t really turn out right,” Feolin tells Dorian. “She’s a little slow. Not so good at pulling the aravels, either—not disciplined enough. When we were still kids, when Samahl was just a fawn and Rimalin was struggling to connect with her, the other elders thought it might be best to leave Samahl behind. But Da’mi couldn’t take it. He cried and cried until they let her stay.”

This is the kind of story Lavellan would never tell Dorian himself, but it makes Dorian grin unreservedly to hear it. It’s pretty much perfect.

“Now, Samahl still doesn’t pull many aravels,” Feolin says, “but she cheers people up, makes them laugh... That’s her place here. I guess Da’mi saw that before the rest of us did.”

“So that’s why they’re such good friends.”

“Mm-hm. He loves hanging around with Samahl, the big softy. Weird that he’s not with her, though... I would’ve thought...”

They ask Rimalin for Lavellan’s whereabouts. She tells them, “Oh, he just left. The Keeper wanted to speak with him.”

Dorian blanches. “The Keeper? Already?”

“What d’you mean, already?” Feolin asks. “Already what?”

“Oh,” Dorian says. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

* * *

“You wanted to see me?” Lavellan asks.

“Yes,” the Keeper says, gesturing for him to sit across from her. “I wished to speak with you before your human had the chance. It seems I might have upset him. But I hope you’ll listen to my request regardless.”

Lavellan raises his brows high. “You... what? What do you mean?”

“Ir abelas,” the Keeper says. “I intended to ask him a favour, but I believe he misunderstood my meaning. He seems to feel I was insulting you. This was not my intent.”

“I, uh,” Lavellan says, nervously scratching at the back of his neck. “I’m sure it’s fine, whatever it is. What was the favour?”

The Keeper leans in close to him, looks him in the eye, and says, “We have spoken of this many times before.”

Lavellan’s heart drops right down into his stomach. _Oh, Elgar’nan, no. Not this again._

“You are remarkable, Da’len,” the Keeper says. “You have accomplished much. We need Elvhen like you to keep our people alive.”

“I’m sorry, Keeper, but I’m afraid I can’t do what you ask. I have a partner already.”

“But that doesn’t need to interfere. Your clan won’t ask you to give up this bond of yours. We simply ask that you share yourself with us as well.”

Lavellan blinks vacantly at her.

“I understand you have made a vow of sorts to your human,” the Keeper says, “but what if he gave you his blessing? Would you consider it then, if you had his permission to do so?”

“Hold on, hold on. Wait,” Lavellan says. “Is that what you and he spoke about? Did you seriously ask him for his blessing?”

“I did,” the Keeper says, and Lavellan buries his face in his palms, feeling his cheeks burn beet-red with mortification. “He refused to answer me—he said it would not make a difference to you whether he gave his blessing or not. He feels certain you will say no regardless. Was he correct? Or would you consider doing it, with his permission? As a favour to your people?”

Into his palms, Lavellan says, “Ir abelas, but he was correct.”

“I see,” the Keeper says, still watching him carefully. “It seems you are upset that I asked him. Why is that?”

“It’s just... it’s...” Lavellan has never had an easy time articulating himself to the Keeper. But he’s an adult, now, properly. He’s the fucking Inquisitor. Surely he can handle this. “It might have come across as... dismissive of our relationship.”

“How is that?” the Keeper asks. “Whatever you get from this relationship, it will never be children. You understand this. Your human must understand this. He can’t help you fulfill your duty to Sylaise. He must be aware that whatever bond you have, whatever companionship it might offer, it will never be a full and complete bond in that regard.”

Lavellan feels a flash of anger, the kind that makes his insides coil up tightly and starts his hands shaking. “It is complete. It’s complete, regardless,” he says. “And it’s incredibly important to me. And telling him to just lay his feelings aside, as if they don’t matter, it’s—that’s—it feels very disrespectful.”

The Keeper furrows her brow. “Disrespectful? For the first time in decades, we have welcomed a human into our camp as an honoured friend. We have even acknowledged your arrangement, as much as it may be against our ways. Does this seem disrespectful to you?”

“It’s...” Lavellan’s face is burning again. He still can’t help but feel like a tongue-tied child in front of the Keeper, who is so calm and assured in everything she says, while he’s a nervous wreck just talking about this. Is this level of accommodation the best he can expect from his people? Perhaps it is. It’s more than Dorian’s people would offer, at any rate. Perhaps Lavellan should be thankful.

At this thought, Lavellan feels a flicker of indignation toward himself. Is he just going to laugh off the insult to Dorian? Why should he have to pretend that it’s okay for the Keeper to be so dismissive of their relationship, as if it’s inherently less than one that produces children—as if Lavellan popping off to a father a child with some woman would have no possible effect on Dorian’s feelings at all?

And then, on the heels of this thought, an immediate choking panic: this is all Lavellan has. These people are all he has, and they’re doing their very best. They are trying to accommodate him within the bounds of their beliefs. How much more can he expect? He’s only grown up into a complete failure as a Dalish person. What is he thinking, opening his mouth at the Keeper like this? What more does he possibly want from his kin?

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan says. He feels his throat constricting with his jangling nerves, and he starts to back out toward the exit. “Please excuse me.”

“Wait, Da’len,” the Keeper says. “I would like to speak about this further, if...”

“Could we please speak later?” Lavellan asks, “I promise, later, I just—I need a minute, I’m sorry.”

The Keeper looks confused, or possibly disappointed. But she nods and says, “Very well, Da’len.” 

Lavellan flees from her tent, heading right out of the camp and down through the trees, desperately seeking somewhere to calm the banging thoughts in his head and examine them by himself.

A merrily babbling creek is always a comforting sound. Lavellan follows his ears through the woods until he finds it and then perches on a stone, watching water striders skip along the creek's surface, the occasional leaf spiralling down from the forest’s canopy and then rafting over the rocks.

Fleeing into the woods—this has always been Lavellan’s go-to method for dealing with his clan. He chuckles humourlessly at himself. _So brave._

Here, he thinks, is the clash of selves that he’s been dreading all this time. Lavellan the Inquisitor knows who he is. He’s proud of his relationship with Dorian. He loves Dorian more than anything else in the whole world. He’d sooner tell the entire court at Halamshiral to go fuck themselves than stop Dorian from being entertained with a dance.

But then, Lavellan the hunter is a scared little kid who has this desperate need to avoid his Keeper’s disapproval. As if attracting too much negative attention from her might tip his hand, might at last reveal to her that he’s a horrible fraud of a Dalish elf who’s turned into absolutely nothing he was supposed to be.

 _But why?_ Lavellan asks himself, picking up a pebble and tossing it in the creek. _Why does it still matter to you? You’ve already left the clan. Your path is already incredibly different than anyone here ever said it would be. Why the fuck does it matter anymore?_

* * *

When a full hour has passed and Lavellan still hasn’t surfaced, Dorian enlists the aid of Feolin and Ruadhin to track him down.

“Right,” Feolin says. “What mood was he in when you saw him last?”

“Not sure,” Dorian says. “He was speaking with the Keeper, that’s all I know.”

“Oh, I saw him leave the Keeper’s tent,” Ruadhin says. “He had that face on. You know that one face he gets?”

“Sad little turnip?” Feolin asks.

“Irritated scowl?” Dorian asks.

“No, no,” Ruadhin says. “I mean the full-on panic face.”

Feolin and Dorian nod sagely. It’s highly familiar to both of them.

“Then I’d wager he’s off on his own somewhere, having a quiet internal conflict,” Dorian says. (And then he feels a pang of guilt. What are the odds that he’s responsible for this?)

“If that’s so,” Feolin says, “then he’s definitely gone to stare at some water.”

“He’s what?” Dorian asks.

“He wouldn’t do the river. Too busy,” Ruadhin says. “The creek over east, maybe?”

“Oh, that’s got to be it,” Feolin says, and she tugs Dorian’s sleeve. “I’ll take you, c’mon!”

She bounces ahead of him for a short distance through the brush, where they find a creek meandering through the trees. They follow it for a few minutes and then sight Lavellan, perched on a rock, seeming lost in thought.

Feolin smiles and gestures over at Lavellan, as if to say: _ta-da_. “Cheer him up for me, will you?” she says, and then she disappears back toward the camp.

When Dorian approaches Lavellan, the elf is kneading his brow, staring into the depths of the mud.

Dorian reads a few possible things into Lavellan’s distress: _I foolishly brought my human partner here, and all it’s shown me is how he doesn’t belong with my people. Bad enough that he doesn’t even know how to make a non-magic fire or carve up a ram, but now he’s gone and upset my Keeper as well. What is the matter with you, Dorian? Why do you cause trouble wherever you go? Why can’t I take you anywhere?_

“Mind if I join you?” Dorian asks, starting Lavellan out of his daze.

“Oh!” Lavellan says, and before Dorian can start to apologize for his mouth, Lavellan has hopped to his feet and crashed his face against Dorian’s chest, squeezing him tightly around the middle. “Dorian, I am so sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry? Whatever for?”

“Well, it depends, I suppose. Did my Keeper actually ask you for permission to let me impregnate someone, or was that all just a horrible nightmare?”

Dorian smirks. “This is real life, I’m afraid... Here I thought you’d be angry with me. I might’ve gotten a bit short with her.”

“That... couldn’t be farther from my concern,” Lavellan says. “I’m sorry, love. This must all seem incredibly strange to you.”

“Why do you keep apologizing?” Dorian asks. “Are you... actually planning on doing it, then? Finding some fertile soil for your virile Dalish seeds...?”

“What?! _No!_ Elgar’nan, no. I just...” He sighs, turning away again, fussing a hand through his hair. “I’m used to being an... out-of-place... disappointment to my Keeper. It’s what I’ve always been here. It’s just—being that person in front of you just feels...” What word can he possibly use? Naked? Vulnerable? “Embarrassing.”

Dorian laughs—a loud, surprised bark of a laugh. “You think I would ever judge you for being an out-of-place disappointment? How much more time do I have to spend talking about myself before you understand that’s exactly what I am?” A pause. “I mean, I’ll go on as long as it takes, of course. I do love talking about myself...”

“I—you’ve said that, I know, it’s just—I don’t know, Dorian. This whole situation just makes me feel like I’m back to being a confused adolescent. I just hate for you to see me feeling so pathetic.”

“I don’t think you’re pathetic, Amatus. I think you’re very brave, honestly. ‘It’s not easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path.’”

Lavellan frowns at him for a moment, trying to work out why this sounds familiar, until Dorian helpfully adds: “I believe some elf with a nice ass told me that once!”

That breaks Lavellan with a snort. “You’re so stupid,” he says, but he tucks himself under Dorian’s offered arm anyway, nestling into his side.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Dorian asks. “You travel worlds away from where you started, and yet certain things remain uncomfortably familiar.”

“Hmm,” Lavellan says. “So, what’s the Tevinter equivalent of a ram roast?”

“Our parties are similar. Only the ram is a rival who crossed you, the fire is magic, the camp is a ballroom, and the ram’s blood is brandy.”

“Oh... Yes. Practically identical.”

Dorian places his chin against Lavellan’s temple, and Lavellan nuzzles against it like a kitten, which makes Dorian smirk.

“There’s more, though, isn’t there?” Dorian asks. “It’s not just that they expected you to have children. What else makes you feel like you don’t belong here?”

“I don’t know. That’s a significant part of it... It’s not like there was some incident, or anything, there was no catalyst. It was just... it was a long, slow process. That’s all.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

Lavellan is quiet for a moment. “Not today,” he says, “but yes. Once we get home. I promise that I will.”

Dorian notices that Lavellan has just described Skyhold as ‘home,’ but he decides not to comment on that just now.

“For today,” Lavellan says, “for right now, I think... I think I just have to start being a little more like you.”

“At last!” Dorian says, and he rakes his fingers through Lavellan’s mess of curls. “I’ll get the scissors. Or... maybe some hedge trimmers to start...”

Lavellan laughs, smacks Dorian’s hands away. “ _No._ Not like that. I’m talking about... honesty. I need to start being more honest, like you are.”

“Am I your benchmark for honesty? Well, that’s troubling.”

“Why?” Lavellan asks. “That’s you, isn’t it? Existing honestly as yourself, regardless of the consequences? Regardless of what anyone else says or thinks?”

Dorian takes a pause. “Well... I mean... yes. I suppose you’re right, at that.”

“Of course I’m right. It’s one of my favourite things about you. It’s inspiring, honestly. I need to be more like that... I don’t know why it seems so frightening sometimes.”

“It can be frightening,” Dorian says. “There’s a lot you stand to lose. You might drive a wedge between yourself and your loved ones, for instance. You might end up with irreparable distance between yourself and your former understanding of the world. You might even completely lose sight of your place in it.” 

“Mm,” Lavellan says. “That’s familiar.”

“But, of course,” Dorian continues, with an airy shrug, “all that being the case, you might also achieve something brilliant in the process—like saving all of existence from an unimaginable threat... or being welcomed repeatedly into the bed of a beautiful elf. So, you know. Pros and cons.”

Lavellan grins weakly. “There is that, isn’t there?”

“Not to mention,” Dorian says, “it’s freeing, being honest. At the end of the day, I’ve just never had patience for insincerity. It takes a lot out of you. It’s _exhausting._ ”

“That much I know,” Lavellan says, and then he sighs, squaring back his shoulders. “Right. You’re right. I can’t be two people anymore. I need to just be one person. _This_ person right here.” He looks up at Dorian and says, “What do you think?”

“I think this person right here is my absolute favourite,” Dorian says, “and anyone who doesn’t like him has rightly earned themselves an invitation to shove their opinion straight up their own ass.”

Lavellan smirks. “Thank you, love.”

* * *

When they’re back in the camp, Lavellan kisses Dorian’s chin and asks him to wait by the fire. Then he steels himself and heads back into the Keeper’s tent.

“So you’ve returned,” the Keeper says. “Did you sort through what was troubling you?”

“I think so,” Lavellan says.

“And what of my request? Have you considered it further? For your people? For the will of Sylaise?”

Lavellan takes a deep breath. He’s never had the courage to tell this to the Keeper before, but today he is going to try his best. He is going to open his mouth and be honest here. It’s the brave thing to do. It’s what Dorian would surely have the strength to do in a situation like this.

He says, “Keeper, I’m sorry, but that’s not my path.”

The Keeper squints at him, but she doesn’t say anything. She seems to sense that he’s not finished.

Lavellan swallows, then says, “And I... I don’t aim to please the Creators. Ir abelas, but I haven’t kept my faith since I’ve been away. I just can’t seem to believe anymore.”

“I know, Da’len,” she says. “And even before. You have not believed for a very long time.”

Lavellan lowers his head, suddenly feeling very young indeed. “I wondered if you knew.”

“Your doubts led you to the humans,” she says, “and among the humans, you have accomplished much. This is the path the Creators have placed you on, even if you don’t see their hand.”

“You think the Creators themselves gave me my doubts?”

“It is not my place to question their ways. Nor can I deny their favour when I see it.” She moves closer to him, strokes his cheek. “No matter what you believe, we are very proud of you, Da’len.”

Though a part of Lavellan feels frustrated, an even bigger part of him is deeply relieved by this sentiment. He has no idea what to do with this tangle of feelings. All he can manage in this moment is to stare at the floor.

“Still,” she says, “you know my burden. You understand why I must continue to ask this of you.”

“I know, Keeper.”

“I cannot change you, Da’len. But will you consider doing us this one favour? For your people. If not for the Creators, consider it for the people who love you and who raised you here. There are so few of us left. It would be one act, child, and then you would be finished.” 

“But it wouldn’t be so simple, would it?” Lavellan asks. “One act might not be enough. And it’s not something I can do alone in any case. What about the other party? What’s her say in this, whoever she is? Who would even agree to it, for that matter?”

“For the good of the people, I am sure someone would,” the Keeper says. “For an elf such as you? She should be honoured to do it.”

At this phrasing, Lavellan’s stomach turns. “That just sounds... no. No, I can’t do that. I’m sorry, Keeper, but I won’t.”

“I am disappointed, Da’len,” she says, “but it’s your choice.”

Quietly, Lavellan says, “Thank you.” If only because he’s not sure what else to say in this situation. Then he hops to his feet and quickly strides out.

* * *

Lavellan is twelve years old when he finds his first doubts.

His clan has always had dealings with passing humans. It’s part of the strategy: “Keep them close, keep ourselves useful. Keep them from feeling like they should attack us.” They never welcome humans into the camp, but they send scouts out onto the roads to meet with merchants and travellers, to make connections and barter for goods.

Lavellan is following along with one of the clan’s scouts, learning his ways, when they come across a human merchant selling tools from a cart. With the merchant is a little girl, his daughter, playing behind the cart on the road. She’s using the point-end of a stick to draw figures in the dust.

Lavellan passes a few minutes watching the girl play, until she notices him and asks if he wants to join. Though at first he hesitates, he eventually kneels at her side, drawing in a prancing Halla with his finger. The girl grins with delight, showing two crooked gap teeth, like his friend Feolin. She has a hacking cough, a bad one, and a big smile. She looks a lot like Feolin but younger, and without such big ears.

As their elders discuss directions and the weather and haggle over their goods, Lavellan helps the little girl pick dandelions from the side of the road. She coughs three specks of blood into her hand while Lavellan weaves the dandelions into a crown. He sets it on her dirty hair and she beams with pride.

When they leave the little girl waves goodbye until they’re all the way out of sight.

Lavellan thinks about the little girl for a long time. He’s searching his eager, limited knowledge for a reason to explain why a seemingly innocent child might have gotten so sick. Eventually, he asks his elder, “Is it true that humans don’t believe in the Creators?”

“Yes, that’s true. They believe in one single Creator.”

“Which one? Is it Elgar’nan? Or Mythal?”

“No, Da’len, none of ours. They believe in their own. They call him the Maker.”

Lavellan is nonplussed. “Then they don’t ask Mythal for protection?”

“How could they, whey they don’t even believe that Mythal exists?”

“Then Mythal doesn’t bless them?”

“No, she doesn’t.”

Lavellan spends the night worrying about the little girl with the cough. He tries saying a prayer: _Da’asha las Mythal’enaste. Please, Mythal, she needs your help. She may not believe, but that’s not her fault. Her parents are humans, they taught her the wrong things. She’s just a little girl. Please lend her your blessing._

In the morning, Lavellan wonders if he could find the little girl again and teach her about the Creators. Perhaps if he explained about Mythal, if she heard the right words from him, she could then ask Mythal for her protection.

At midday, he wonders if Mythal would even accept the prayers of a human girl.

He asks one of the elders and they laugh at him. “Humans spit on our Creators. They would have no need or want to speak to them.”

“But why would they spit?” Lavellan asks. 

“Because that is their way,” is all he gets. It doesn’t feel like much of an answer.

In the afternoon, Lavellan wonders what would have happened if he had been brought up by a human merchant. Would he also spit on the Creators? Would Mythal bless him still?

In the evening, it strikes him: just as he has been told from birth about the Creators, this little girl has been told from birth about the Maker. If he told her about Mythal, she may not even believe it’s the truth. She must already be convinced that her own beliefs are the correct ones.

It takes years for his faith to unravel, but this is where he first catches the loose end of the thread.

*

Lavellan is thirteen when he realizes that he’s a bit different.

He is with Feolin, Ruadhin, and Ru’s best friend Tanavel, who has promised to show them an incredible place to swim. Lavellan is inseparable from Feolin, and the clan whispers that the two might just be made for each other.

Lavellan has always believed them. He loves Feolin. They understand each other and make each other giggle and she’s better at catching fireflies than anyone else he knows.

He’s not sure what else there is, until they get to that swimming hole in the woods. Until Tanavel takes off his clothes and dives in, and something in Lavellan wakes right up.

 _Oh_ , Lavellan thinks. _That. That is something else right there._

He spends a full year questioning, wondering, thinking about Tanavel, glancing at Tanavel. He asks innocuous little questions, sends Feolin to gather information, confirms in every possible way without outright admitting his own truth that Tanavel is having the same kinds of thoughts—only about women.

He lets his friendship with Tanavel dry up and get uncomfortable. He doesn’t know what else to do. He breaks down among the Halla and cries into Samahl’s flank. He pours his worries out to Rimalin in the light of an unusually pink dusk.

“It’s all right, Da’len,” Rimalin tells him gently, over the comforting sound of the Halla huffing and snorting around them, with Samahl nuzzling his shoulder. “There’s no fault in wanting. You can be fruitful and serve Sylaise, and you can also pursue this path. They do not necessarily have to lead apart from one another.”

That may have been comforting if there were another boy in the clan like him, but there is not. There is no one but him.

He doesn’t end up with Feolin after all. 

*

Lavellan is fourteen when he is assigned to spend the day gathering herbs with Ruadhin, and the two are driven to shelter in a cave during a sudden thunderstorm. They smoke elfroot to pass the time. They talk about hunting, about dreams, about their clan-mates, about sex.

Neither one has ever tried anything before. Both are curious and bursting with all the hormones that Sylaise could possibly stuff into their bodies. Both hardly know how they wound up doing this, but eventually they find themselves trying something. It’s not like they’re really doing anything _with_ each other. It’s all convenience. It’s just an experiment, clearly.

Ruadhin doesn’t think he particularly likes boys, but it will be two years before he works out how to convince girls to give him the time of day. For right in this moment, this is a welcome release.

Lavellan just wishes Ruadhin were Tanavel.

They’ll still be friends tomorrow, but they’ll never speak of this afternoon again.

*

Lavellan is sixteen at the Arlathvhen. So many of their people gathered in one place, including clans he’s never seen before. Clans like Clan Haramel. With people like Tamrin Haramel.

 _Tamrin Haramel_ , who smiles at Lavellan and immediately lights his insides on fire. Who catches Lavellan’s sidelong glances as they’re forced to sit with their own clan-mates, and who sends back a few yearning looks of his own. Who kisses Lavellan in a spare moment behind a copse of trees, a kiss that’s such a relief that it gets longer and deeper until they’re interrupted by their respective clan-mates, who are wondering where they’ve gone.

By unspoken agreement, Lavellan and Tamrin sneak out again at night, colliding on the trampled path away from the meeting place, pulling each other into the trees and devouring each other right on the ground. 

Over the week they continue to steal time together despite their Keepers’ vocal concerns, exploring each other, asking questions. _You thought you were the only one? Me too. Me too._

Among the others gathered for the Arlathvhen, Lavellan’s Keeper has pointed out two elves who share his eyes and hair. Siblings, she calls them. He is curious to speak with them, but then the elders learn of him and Tamrin, and then their behaviour becomes the subject of gossip, and suddenly things change. When Lavellan meets them as planned, his siblings tell him they would prefer not to be seen with him. 

Lavellan simply apologizes to them and lets them walk away.

When the Arlathvhen is over, the clans separate, as they always do. Lavellan searches the departing waves of elves for a sight of Clan Haramel. When Tamrin catches his eye, he runs over and kisses Lavellan goodbye, right on the mouth, in front of everyone. Right in front of Feolin and Ruadhin and Tanavel. 

“Valla’dareth!” Tamrin says— _Live well!_

Feolin looks delighted—as in, _You’ll have to tell me more later._ Tanavel is nonplussed, pointedly doesn’t comment. Ruadhin is stunned, and as they move along to the aravels he can’t stop boggling over the idea that Lavellan has actually found someone else with the same problem as him.

“Maybe it’s not just in your head,” Ruadhin says. It seems he’s trying to be helpful. “Maybe it’s the work of Fen’Harel. Maybe he’s trying to trick you. Maybe he’s tempting other men toward you, trying to lead you astray from your path.”

What else must Ruadhin want to blame Fen’Harel for, Lavellan wonders?

Lavellan spends years dreaming of tracking Clan Haramel across the Free Marches and begging them to let him join.

*

When Lavellan is eighteen, he fucks a human for the first time.

He finds himself among humans more and more these days. He’s swift, quiet, skilled with daggers, and with all that being the case—when the hunt is otherwise going well—the Keeper is willing enough to let him practice his skills as a scout. 

He doesn’t know if she knows that he’s trying to pull away. Some days she gives him that penetrating stare and he thinks she must know everything. Some days he thinks she couldn’t have less of an idea what’s going on in his head.

She urges him to marry and have children, to “pass along his gifts” and grow the clan with more healthy Dalish babies to learn their ways. She says, “You need not enjoy it for its own sake. The creation of a child can be reverential, instead. A sacred ritual in praise of Sylaise.”

Lavellan thinks he’s never heard a bigger load of shit in his life.

The first human he fucks is a merchant who’s quiet and gruff but kind enough. At first, Lavellan just notices the man’s eyes lingering on him longer than usual. When he asks Lavellan, with clear intent, if there is anything else they can trade, Lavellan thinks, _Why not? Who else am I waiting for?_

The merchant takes him behind his cart. It’s clinical and interesting and relatively short. There is some relief in this, and a wide spate of loneliness just behind that.

There are more humans over the following years, some better than others. Some make Lavellan want to scrub himself raw in a river. Some make Lavellan gasp and dig his fingers deep into the soil. (Most fall somewhere in between.)

Two things that all of these men have in common: they never face him, and they never see him twice.

*

When Lavellan is nineteen, he stops dead in the mud on a forest track west of Wycome and slowly sinks to his knees.

He’s made it three full determined miles from the clan and he’s finally lost it. The wind has died away from his back, and he suddenly feels like he can’t breathe.

It’s his first attempt to run away. He knows in his heart that he doesn’t fit with his clan anymore—he doesn’t share their beliefs or their path. He has no interest in praising Sylaise in any fashion. The fresh vallaslin on his face feels incredibly insincere, each moment of pain that went into it drilling a question to him: _Why? Why are you still playing at this?_ He only has to glimpse the still-swollen lines on his face to feel a sting of shame, like the guilt has been branded right onto his skin.

Lavellan spends every minute feeling like he should apologize. He wants to apologize to his clan-mates for not being able to join in their enthusiasm, and he wants to apologize to the Keeper for not being able to follow the path she’s laid out for him, and he wants to apologize to Mythal for no longer being able to believe in her.

All this pushes him away, like a repelling force. But now he’s let it drive him away from his clan for the very first time, and as he registers this distance, he feels absolutely terrified. 

He doesn’t share their beliefs, but he knows them. And they know him. They’ve always known him. And they love him all the same.

How could he possibly delude himself that living among humans will be better? The only thing he would be accomplishing here is to make himself even more alone. If he can’t even find comfort among his own people, how will he ever find a place anywhere else? Is this not just his path? Is a safe, stale and insincere existence not just his lot in life?

Lavellan stays paralyzed for a long while before he picks himself up and heads back the way he came.

He’ll be here again. He’ll falter on this path over and over. But this day is the first time.

*

It’s years after all that when Lavellan finally meets Dorian.

Dorian has a laugh that’s like a sonorous round of applause. Dorian weaves clever, beautiful words together faster than Lavellan can blink. Dorian knows _so many things._ Dorian is brave and funny and incredibly strange. Dorian looks him right in the eye. And Dorian smiles like a blinding flash of lightning that burns all the sense out of Lavellan’s head.

When Dorian bends forward, letting pain and worry wrinkle up between his brows, Lavellan wants to grab him by the face and kiss that little crease over and over until it disappears forever.

“You learn not to hope for more,” Dorian tells him. “You’d be foolish to.”

 _Yes,_ Lavellan wants to say back. _Yes, I know, I know how that feels—but not anymore._ Because ever since he first laid eyes on Dorian, Lavellan hasn’t been able to think anything other than _more, more, more._

* * *

Lavellan exits the Keeper’s tent and heads back to the fire, where he finds Dorian tightly sandwiched between two red-haired elves who are unabashedly staring at his face.

“So is it magic, then?” Feolin is asking, while tapping her upper lip.

Dorian laughs with disbelief. “No, it’s not magic. I quite naturally grew it out of my face.”

“But _how?_ ” Ruadhin asks.

“What do you mean, ‘how’? I simply let it be. It’s actually less effort than not having one would be.”

“Now, that is a complete lie,” Lavellan says, as he strolls up to join them. “He spends ages every morning grooming the surrounding area. It’s fascinating to watch.”

“Well, yes, because I’m not an unsanitary beast,” Dorian says. “Can you even imagine me with a full beard? What a shameful waste of excellent bone structure.”

Feolin’s eyes widen. “You mean you could grow a full beard?!”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dorian says, stroking his bare cheek. “If I ever dared to neglect myself, one would appear on its own... This part, I have to combat on a regular basis.”

The siblings have suddenly jammed themselves in quite close, squinting at Dorian’s jawline, trying to catch a glimpse of any visible follicles. “No way...”

Dorian shoots Lavellan a pleasant smile over the tops of their heads, ignoring their rather suffocating level of interest. “How did it go in there, love?”

“All right, I guess,” Lavellan says. “Not a complete breakthrough. Not a disaster, either.”

“Well, that’s something,” Dorian says, and then he frowns downward, as four curious elven hands begin to experimentally rub his face and neck. “Children, _please_.”

“Hey!” Lavellan laughs, swatting his friends away. “Get your own human to fondle.”

“Aww,” Feolin says.

“Come on,” Ruadhin says. “What happened to sharing what you have with your people, etcetera? What kind of a Dalish are you?”

“Not a very good one, obviously,” Lavellan says. 

“Excuse me— _sharing?_ ” Dorian says. “I am not a piece of meat.”

“Yeah, you kind of are,” Feolin says. “To a wolf, at least...”

Dorian shudders. “Oh. What a wonderful image. You people are so charming.”

“Well, then back off the meat, please,” Lavellan says. “This one is mine.”

* * *

On their last morning with the clan, Lavellan spends a long time tenderly petting Samahl.

“Dareth-ma,” he says. “Ar lath ma. I’ll miss you, buddy.”

Samahl snorts morosely, rubbing her forehead against his face.

“I know,” Lavellan says. “You’d hate it with the Inquisition, though. You’ll be happy here, with all this space, and your friends. And I’ll still love you just as much, even when we’re far apart.”

 _He is having a conversation with the Halla,_ Dorian thinks, as Samahl huffs and licks Lavellan’s nose. _Secret elven talent? Or delirious side-effects of his full-blown case of Halla disease..._

“Now, go say goodbye to Dorian,” Lavellan says, and Samahl blinks a few times, then turns and ambles obediently to Dorian’s side.

Dorian is about to be impressed at this display of intellect when Samahl sniffs his sleeve and gets right on to chewing on it.

“Oh, I see,” Dorian says. “This is our ‘thing,’ is it? Well, good to have met you anyway, Samahl. I hope the grass is favourable in years to come.”

Samahl drops the sleeve, raises her head, stares at Dorian—then lays her snout adoringly on his shoulder.

“Ghilan’nain!” Lavellan gasps, clasping his chest. “Look at that! You two are _so cute._ ”

Dorian tries his best to ignore the drool seeping into the fabric at his shoulder and just appreciate the gesture. He pats Samahl’s neck and says, “Quite.” 

They move along, then, from the Halla to the gathered elves. The Keeper ventures out first, opening her arms to Lavellan. He hesitates, then goes to her, letting her take him by the shoulders.

“Ir mirthadra, Da’len,” she says. “You honour us. This will not change. I hope this fact is one thing you will never have cause to doubt.”

Lavellan feels his face flush warm and pink, and he stares at his feet. “I will try not to, Keeper.”

“Go on, then,” she says, gesturing him toward the elves assembled behind her. “Your kin will want to wish you a safe journey.”

As Lavellan bids farewell to one clan member after the other, the Keeper turns and strides purposefully up to Dorian. They study each other for a moment. Then the Keeper offers her hand.

Dorian takes it, shaking politely. “Ma serannas. I appreciate your hospitality.”

“Lavellan’len eth’suledin,” she says. “I know that you are a powerful man. Please, protect our child. Please keep our child safe.”

Before responding, Dorian takes a quick glance at Lavellan, ensuring he is too far away to overhear.

Then Dorian says, “I promise you: nothing in this world could be more important to me.”

The Keeper half-smiles at him. “Thank you,” she says, and she places her hand on his chest. “Vhenan-ma ara atish’an. ‘May this be the place where your heart finds peace.’”

The Keeper slips away, then, surrendering Dorian to the now ever-so-familiar attentions of Ruadhin, who saunters up to him and thrusts his palm awkwardly forward. “Is this how you humans do it?”

“Like this,” Dorian says, offering his hand. Ruadhin corrects his form, mirroring Dorian’s. “Now take my hand and shake it. Not too hard. No, no, not like a cold fish, you want people to think you have authority, strength! ...Yes, that’s it. Very good.”

“Why do you do this, even?” Ruadhin asks, while continuing to rapidly shake Dorian’s hand. “What if you meet someone with shit on their palms?”

“That’s actually an excellent question, Ruadhin,” Dorian says. “When you get right down to it, it is a rather barbaric custom, isn’t it? ...You can stop now.”

Ruadhin releases Dorian’s hand, then folds his arms. “You want to know what I think?”

“Oh, please, do tell.”

“I think you’re not such a bad Tevinter,” Ruadhin says. “I might actually decide to like you.”

“Ah,” Dorian says. “Thank goodness. What a relief.”

“You’re welcome,” Ruadhin says. “Just... keep all that lightning stuff to our side, yeah?”

Feolin bounds up to intercept their conversation, then—she throws her arms around Dorian, squeezing the life out of him, then shoves something into his palm.

“Vhenallin,” she says. “‘Friend of ours.’ So you don’t forget.”

He looks down to see that she’s given him a shiny little rock. “Why, thank you! I’ll be sure to keep it safe.”

“And him too?”

“And him too. I promise.”

At last, Lavellan finishes his rounds of the rest of the clan and rejoins them. Feolin squeezes him next, demanding repeatedly that he write to her much more often. “I will,” Lavellan says, “I promise, I will.”

“I will nag him endlessly if he doesn’t,” Dorian says.

Feolin grins and says, “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Lavellan turns to Ruadhin then and says, “Well... See you.”

“Right. See you,” Ruadhin says. “Try not to die.”

“You, also, the same thing.”

“Mm-hm.”

They eye each other coolly for a moment more—then Ruadhin breaks this show with a grin and entangles Lavellan in a headlock, aggressively rubbing his head, putting his hair into complete disarray. “One for the road!”

“No!” Lavellan laughs, whacking Ruadhin repeatedly in the arm. “Quit it! Fuck off!”

Feolin sighs. “Typical.”

At last, Lavellan manages to remove Ruadhin’s arm from his neck and push him away. Then he turns to Dorian, smiling at him, trying to rake his curls back into place with one hand. “Are you ready?”

As they walk back up the trail toward civilization, Lavellan asks to see what Feolin gave him. Dorian pulls the rock out of his pocket and hands it over.

“Oh, that’s a nice one!” Lavellan says.

“So, does this gesture have a complicated Dalish meaning of some sort?”

Lavellan stops, then turns to Dorian, holding the rock up next to his face, squinting at it. Dorian watches him patiently.

“It represents you, I think,” Lavellan says. “See? It’s dark and shiny, the same colour as your hair. But then there’s little veins, like strikes of lightning.”

“Uh... huh,” Dorian says. “Clearly. What other explanation could there possibly be?”

Lavellan smirks at him and hands the rock back. “It means she likes you, Dorian.”

“A token of approval, then. I suppose I should be relieved.”

“I knew you’d make an impression,” Lavellan says. “...What about you, though? You must be ready to see the back of me after putting up with all that...”

“And ruin our wine plans? Perish the thought. No, I’ve already got the next forty-eight hours strategically planned out.”

“Oh? So what’s our first order of business when we get back into Wycome?”

“Bathing,” Dorian says. “Long... thorough... incredibly civilized bathing.”

“Ah, of course.”

“Together, mind,” Dorian says, with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows. “And with two inappropriately full glasses of Antivan red.”

Lavellan laughs, and his hand finds Dorian’s, giving it a squeeze. “Brilliant idea.”

* * *

Lavellan comes across Cole on the floor of his Skyhold quarters, sitting amidst a scattered pile of his many gathered natural artifacts, carefully arranging them on the rug. 

“Cole?” Lavellan asks. “What are you doing there?”

The boy looks up with a shy grin and a hint of pride. “It’s you!”

“Uh... what?”

Cole has methodically assembled the items before him into a vague likeness of Lavellan’s face and shoulders. He explains, “The fern moss is your hair because it’s curly, like yours. Shiny rocks for your eyes because they look young, even though they’ve seen ages. Birch bark for your scarf, because you really like birch bark...”

“Yes, yes, okay, I see it,” Lavellan says, “but... why? Why did you want to do this?”

“They said you couldn’t use these things,” Cole says. “But you knew it wasn’t true. You knew they could be more than what they are. Like you. They’re not just broken pieces. You aren’t, either.”

Lavellan swallows a lump down his throat and quietly says, “Okay. Stop, please. I get it.”

Cole is obediently quiet. Feeling particularly at a loss for words, Lavellan sinks down next to him. For a while they just sit silently on the floor together.

When Dorian next comes up the stairs into Lavellan’s quarters, he finds Lavellan and Cole lying on their stomachs on the rug. Next to the moss, rocks and bark that make up Lavellan’s likeness, Lavellan has constructed an imitation of Cole from buttons, grass, and twigs.

“Could he have a hat, please?” Cole asks. “I think that would make him happier.”

“Certainly,” Lavellan says. “Pass me the leather scraps...”

Dorian stands over them, arms folded, appraising their work, a grin on his face. “So you’ve finally found a use for all this? Well done.”

“See?” Lavellan says. “I told you this stuff had a place.”

“This is your place, too, Dorian,” Cole says. To Lavellan, he whispers, “Now we need to make Dorian...”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” Dorian says. “You haven’t got nearly enough silk.”

Lavellan laughs, and he bats Dorian’s ankle like a cat until the mage takes the hint and sits down with them. “Sometimes you just have to make do with what you’ve got.”

Dorian lounges there on the rug, idly rubbing Lavellan’s back, watching as Lavellan and Cole construct a handsome Dorian face in profile using velvet scraps and pine needles. 

The whole thing, if odd, is kind of adorable.

But then, a stumbling block: “There’s no eye here,” Cole says mournfully. “We need the right eye or he won’t be able to see.”

“Darn,” Lavellan says, as he paws through his leftover nature bits. “Where will we possibly find something captivating enough?!”

“I’m not sure if you’re joking, but you shouldn’t be,” Dorian says. “Oh, but wait a moment—I think I’ve got something.”

“You what?” Lavellan asks. “Do you?”

Dorian digs through his pockets, then at last produces the little black rock he received from Feolin.

Lavellan gapes at him. “You actually kept that?”

“It was entrusted to me for safekeeping! What am I, irresponsible?” Dorian plunks the rock down as the eye of his portrait in profile. “There. What do you think?”

“Oh, yes. That’s good,” Cole says. He gets down on his belly, leans in close to the rock, and whispers: “ _This is where you belong._ ”

Lavellan squeezes Dorian’s knee and adds, “Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this rather self-indulgent thing! And thanks again for the requests that inspired it. For the record, I'm always interested to hear fic requests, even outside my most beloved parameters of Lavellan and Dorian. :)
> 
> (Also, shoutout to my alternate Inquisitors for being clan-mates today!) (here are [my talkative siblings](http://i.imgur.com/5REK5Lc.jpg) for the record)


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